Symphony of Angels
by Silver Spider
Summary: Demona does not betray Macbeth in 1057 A.D., but things go south anyway. How does this change the journeys of the two immortals through the centuries?
1. Prologue: A Crack in the Ice

_**Author's Note:**_ My first shot at Gargoyles fanfiction, so be gentle, folks. I recently got back into the fandom, rabidly devouring anything and everything out there, episodes and fics alike. Demona and Macbeth caught my attention much more so in my second venture into the fandom. I don't think I ever appreciated the complexity of their intertwined story until I was much older, but they instantly got bumped up to my top favorite characters list.

Note on my dialog: I will do my best to stay in-character and imitate the way everyone talks, but I decided against trying to imitate Macbeth's (or anyone else's) accent through writing. I tried but somehow it never turns out well. Also I like to throw in quotes from the show, but not in the places they would normally appear. Just a little easter egg hunt. See if you can find them. PS all the titles are song titles so I'll probably upload a soundtrack in my journal sometime in the future.

This story – with the exception of the prologue - starts out in medieval Scotland (1057 A.D.) and will continue into at least the late twentieth century. This means that some groups of chapters may span a few hours or days, others will be centuries apart. I'll label things, don't worry. Everything historical up until the first flashback in "City of Stone Pt. IV" remains the same as in the canon but diverges from there. You'll see what I mean with the first chapter. Pairings will remain canon for a while (ie Macbeth/Gruoch and mentions of Goliath/Demona when appropriate) but there's a strong possibility that this will turn into a Macbeth/Demona fic in the far future. It's not so much an exclusively AU fic as it is a "what if..." fic that changes one moment in time that affects the rest of... everything.

Lastly, I know that Greg Weisman has extended the Gargoyles universe far beyond what we see in the show and has discussed scenes between episodes that the fandom considers canon as well. While I read some of his discussions - and do tend to think he's brilliant ^_^ - I don't know nearly enough to follow those comments even in places where I can. So if I do something different, chuck it up to the nature of the story. I'll do my best to stick to familiarity.

So after that long ramble, please enjoy...

**Symphony of Angels**

**By: Silver Spider**

**Prologue**

**A Crack in the Ice**

_Wyvern Hill, Scotland, 1994 A.D._

The wind played through the woman's unruly bright red hair, rarely tied back even when the the coastal winds were likely to make a tangled mess of it. She inhaled the cool salty air, then stiffened as it brought back unbidden memories. Apparently some wounds did not heal nearly as well as others, no matter how many centuries passed.

Her companion, a tall man, stood beside her, hands tucked into the pockets of his long black trenchcoat. Unlike her stiff posture, his stance was casual and relaxed, but his keen, blue-gray eyes missed little.

"Need I even ask if you're frightened or should I just ask why?"

She did not reply, and he did not press further for which she was grateful. She was not ready to drop the shield of the illusion of strength, even around him. Not in this matter. The woman briefly wondered if she would ever be able to, before dismissing the thought as pointless. Her dark eyes focused on the empty parapets around the tallest tower of Castle Wyvern.


	2. Chapter 1: Tomorrow Can Wait

**Chapter 1**

**Tomorrow Can Wait**

_Castle Moray, Scotland, 1057 A.D._

"A wise king considers all of his options, Luach, and then makes his choice."

Chips of stone from the high walls of Castle Moray fell to the ground bellow as Demona buried her claws into them. She made a conscious effort not to tear off pieces of the structure in her fury, thereby risking a rather lengthy fall. The night air was calm, not nearly enough wind in it to catch her in case of a fall.

Macbeth had betrayed her - would betray her. Why had she not learned that lesson after Wyvern? Humans betrayed. Her kind was nearly extinct as it was. She had an obligation to what remained of her clan, a duty to protect them from human treachery. She would return to them this very night, take them far away from here, away from all the human dogs. Let Macbeth see how well he can deal with the English on his own.

Her eyes strayed to the west, sight stretching far beyond its limits into memory. Somewhere many lieges away across the whole of Scotland, Castle Wyvern stood tall, the ruble of her slaughtered clan no doubt still littering its parapets and walkways. At best, the silent sleeping forms of her six clanmates, including that of her beloved mate, remained at vigil on the monument. At worst…

_You have conveniently forgotten your own role in history, _chided a tiny voice in her mind._ It was not just the humans._

_It was!_ She clenched her teeth. _It is always the humans!_

_Then why have you not returned even once in over sixty years?_ the voice challenged, apparently growing stronger. _Why else, if not for your guilt?_

And for some reason, Demona remained. When asked about that moment centuries later, she would reluctantly admit to uncertainty about how she felt about the outcome.

"Bodhe, I have always respected your advice," she heard the king through the window bellow. "You were a good friend to my father and are to me in turn, but I tell you now: I will not consider this."

"Be reasonable…"

"I am. Luach is right. None of us may even be alive today were it not for Demona and her clan, never mind this kingship. More than that, I swore to her I would protect her people. I will not break that promise, and you should know better than to ask." There was a pause as he let that sink in. "That is my final word on the matter. Now I must see to the defenses and, if I am very fortunate, get a few hours rest this night."

She heard his retreating footsteps and the slam of the heavy oak door.

Demona blinked. Had she heard correctly?

Uncertain of what to think, she climbed to the top of the tower, spread her wings, and glided down to the wide balcony on the other side. Demona landed surprisingly gently, without a sound, She placed a palm on one the cool stone of one of the large parapets. This is where it all began, some thirty-seven years ago.

Demona was not one to dwell on the past as it was a painful place to linger more often than not, but she remembered a fateful night long ago when she suffered a brief spell of insanity and chose to save the life of a human boy thereby letting her prey escape. She had never stopped to consider if that decision was right, but now she knew that it had been. The gargoyle smirked. What were the offs that the one moment she should act against her nature would spare the life of the one honest and honorable human she should come across in her long life?

The door behind her creaked open, and Demona turned, expecting to see one of Macbeth's men or perhaps the king himself. She was a bit surprised when Queen Gruoch emerged, her long skirts brushing the stone floor. The lady lad aged well, all things considered, but her long braid was now the same shade of gray as her mate's hair had been for seventeen years. There were fine lines on her brow and at the corners of her eyes. She drew in a sharp breath of surprise when she saw the gargoyle but quickly regained her composure.

"I was looking for my husband," she said. "Might you know where he is?"

"No," Demona replied. "We spoke earlier, but I have not seen him since.

"Oh," the queen hesitated, and Demona could see a trace of fear in her moss-green eyes. Good. That was the way it should be. But apparently the human woman had courage as well because she rose her eyes to her after a moment. "I wish to thank you. For everything you have done for Scotland and for my family. I know you have been treated poorly by humans in the past, but I hope we are slowly changing your opinion of us."

"Slowly," the gargoyle agreed with that much, and this time both women fell into an uncomfortable silence.

"Is there anything I can bring you?" Gruoch offered finally. "Some supper perhaps before you return to your clan? 'Tis nearly enough in the way of thanks."

The corner of Demona's mouth twitched, but she hid her amusement. The door from the tower opened for the second time then, admitting Macbeth onto the balcony. If he was surprised to see either of them, he did not show it. The king took his wife's hand and gave her a warm smile and bent to kiss her affectionately. Demona never did understand that particular human custom.

"It has been a long night, my lord," Gruoch said, stroking the side of her husband's weary face. "Are these matters that cannot wait till morning?"

"In the morning I'll be short my best advisor and warrior," he tilted his head at Demona. "I had been hoping you had not yet left."

"I would have if you had arrived a moment later," she replied. "What is it?"

"I have called a counsel to review our strategy with the local thanes and regents. You should be present."

They argued late into the night, until more than half of Macbeth's thanes and retainers were nearly as blue in the face as Demona. Some advised caution while others called for a swift strike. The king listened to them all in turn, approving some strategies and dismissing others. No one else suggested to denounce the gargoyles, not in Demona's presence.

"I believe," Macbeth said finally, "that it would be prudent to wait for my son to return with reinforcements. It makes no sense to have our forces divided when we know the Hunter and his allies have but one target: Moray."

Demona, who had been half-listening from her place at the window, turned. "You're setting yourself up as bait."

"Not exclusively," the king rubbed his bearded chin. "I'm yet not suicidal. Only half of our forces are here, hopefully presenting too sweet a prize for the English to forgo."

"Hopefully?" Angus, one of his thanes, raised a copper colored brow, obviously displeased.

"There is time yet, and these walls are sturdy," Macbeth assured the man, "and Luach will return tomorrow night with the other half of our men. This will successfully force the English to fight on two fronts, not to mention our aerial advantage."

He looked at Demona when he said this. The female warrior flashed her fangs in a grin that was enough to make most of the men in the room shrink back. Macbeth recognized the look of battle lust in her obsidian eyes. She approved of his plan. Then his gaze shifted to the window and he frowned.

"You will not have time to inform your clansmen this night," he said. Some of Demona's earlier enthusiasm fled as she saw the faintest trace of light on the horizon that had caught his attention. "Don't worry. There will be plenty of time to gather then tomorrow at dusk. We do not expect the mass of English forces here till well into the night."

"I would feel better amongst my kind," the gargoyle grumbled.

"And I would feel better if you spent the day here," the king retorted. "'Tis nearly dawn, and you're no good to me as a pile of rocks decorating the hillsides."

He stifled a yawn behind his large hand, and Demona rolled her eyes.

"Go see your wife, Macbeth, and then rest. You're no good to me if you fall over from exhaustion. I am not picking you up."

The generals had all suddenly taken a great deal of interest in the floor, ceiling, or their own nails. No doubt they could not decide whether the exchange sounded like an argument between senior officers or the squabble of a married couple. No one dared comment either way.

* * * * * * * * * *

The late morning found a stone Demona standing with her back to the central window in the castle's Great Hall, but Macbeth was already awake and rounding the battlements after a few hours of sleep. Reasonably satisfied with the defenses and the preparation level of his men, he resined himself to wait and rested along one of the walkways of the castle's tall walls.

In his youth, the prospect of battle would have been cause for excitement, but now Macbeth was weary of fighting. Scotland had seen seventeen years of peace and prosperity under his rule, and he had no desire for a prolonged war. Once the Hunter was out of the way – Macbeth suspected the man's identity but had no solid proof – he would negotiate a truce with the English, and his biggest problem would go back to being listening to the complaints of lords squabling over regional land. All would be well again.

A rider newly arrived at the eastern gate caught Macbeth's attention. _A scout, no doubt_, he thought, then frowned. The English were coming from the south, and that was where he had sent most of his scouts. There was little need for men in the east as the sea was their best defense in that region. In fact, the only soldiers he had sent to to the area recently were there to... Macbeth suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and raced to the courtyard.

"What happened?" he demanded of the bloody and bruised man.

The rider opened his mouth to speak, but his strength finally failed him. His eyes rolled back and he would have tumbled from his saddle had the king not caught him and eased him onto the ground. As he shouted for a healer, Macbeth nearly missed the object that fell from the satchel at the man's him. He reached to pick up the stone, taking a breath before he turned it over.

A piece of wing.

Bile rose in the back of his throat, and it was all he could do to keep from retching. He vaguely recognized when the healers came to take the injured man from him and that some of the soldiers who had witnessed the scene were gathered around, urgently asking him what was wrong.

"The gargoyles are no more," he barely recognized his own voice and turned to the men. "Tell every servant, cook, stable boy, every noncombatant to leave this place and flee for safety. Then tell all the men to scatter into the woods west of here. You must go behind enemy lines and meet Luach's reinforcements without being discovered."

"But that will leave the castle undefended," one protested. "The English will raise it to the ground!"

Flashes of his childhood, swordplay with his father, the chess game with Gruoch, his wedding, the birth of his son, and other happy memories flashed through Macbeth's mind. For over fifty years, his whole life had been at Castle Moray. He straitened.

"Let them."

"But sire!"

"This place will burn regardless," he whirled on the man. "Alone, we are outnumbered five to one. It is only a question of whether Castle Moray burns with or without its people, and I will set the blaze myself if I deem it will save lives. Go. You have your orders."

The men ran off, but one hesitated. "What will you do, my lord?"

Macbeth said nothing as he started for the Great Hall, his palm closing around the piece of stone wing. _I will see my home emptied, my people safely away, and then I will wait till sundown._

The day was drawing to a close far too quickly. The order spread, but there were preparation to be made, however hurried. Soldiers gathered their mounts, armor, and weapons, while servants hurried about heaping provisions into carts, as many as the mules and remaining horses could carry. Queen Gruoch herself oversaw the preparations, and by late afternoon, the castle was almost empty.

Macbeth knelt in the center of the Great Hall in front of the stone form of one of his oldest advisors and allies. After all the hours he could still not even begin to think of what he would say to Demona once she awoke. He tried to imagine what it would be like to return to the world and discover that he was the last human being on Earth. It was a terrifying thought, wholly encompassed in all-consuming loneliness. Light footsteps sounded behind him, and a moment later Gruoch knelt on the floor beside him and squeezed his hand in comfort. He was so very grateful for her. Heaven only knew what he would do without his beloved wife by his side.

"Most of the people are well away," she told him in a quiet voice.

"Good," he nodded solemnly. "You should have gone with them."

"I will not leave without you," she said stubbornly and glanced up at the slumbering Demona. "Is there no one else who could tell her of the fate of her kinsmen?"

"No one who would survive the encounter," Macbeth gave a dry laugh. "I am not entirely certain even I will, but I owe her that much. I swore I would keep her clan safe, Gruoch. This alliance, this barging between us, hinged on it, and I failed.."

He buried his face in his hands, and even his wife's arm around his shoulder did little to alleviate the misery. She rubbed his back, as if soothing a child.

"You did the best you could. Their place of rest was well hid with twenty loyal Scotsman guarding them during the day. They could have fled when they saw the English numbers, but they stayed and fought out of their loyalty to you and to our allies."

"And all but one perished," Macbeth was grim. "Now the fate of Scotland itself is uncertain."

His tired eyes noted the long shadows creeping across the floor as the last rays of the sun disappeared outside the window. The king rose to his feet and helped his wife up as well.

"Please await me without. I need to do this alone," he said. If Demona lost her scenes in her grief, he was reasonably confident he could defend himself long enough for her to regain them, but he feared for Gruoch.

The queen did not argue and quickly left the room just as the first hairline cracks appeared on the gargoyle's stone form. Eyes blazed crimson as the warrior broke free of her slumber, sending shards of stone skin in every direction. It took her only a few seconds to assess her surroundings and the deep frown on her smooth face told Macbeth she immediately knew something was wrong. He took a deep breath and braised himself.


	3. Chapter 2: Season's End

_**Author's Note:**_ Thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. This is the last chapter that will be a replay of my version of the flashback from City of Stone Part 4 and will use some dialog straight from that. After this, it's all AU though once I get to the twentieths century I'll start relying on episodes again for some things. Also, so the author's end note for more comments. Enjoy and please review!

**Chapter 2**

**Season's End**

For a moment after the world came back into focus after her stone slumber, Demona thought that she had been moved during the day. The place appeared far too empty to be the Great Hall of Castle Moray, all the fires dead to ambers, many of the tapestries and other decorations gone. And it was quiet. Dead quiet.

Macbeth was in the hall as well, facing her. The king looked grim and weary, seeming for the first time older than the steady fifties he had lingered in for the last seventeen years. Something had happened during the day, that much she could gather, but she refused to make in her concern until she had to. Macbeth tended to worry more than was necessary, in her opinion.

"Well?" her tone demanded an explanation.

"We are evacuating," the man said simply. "The Hunter and his English allies made further progress during the day than we expected."

_Was that all?_ "You frighten far too easily," Demona waved a taloned hand dismissively. "My clan and I can easily..."

"Your clan is gone, Demona."

It would have been less of a shock if he run her through with cold steel. She stared at him blankly. Macbeth pressed his lips into a thin line.

"They found the cave early this morning, slaughtered the gargoyles' watchmen, and smashed their stone forms."

The sad truth was finally out. Fate only knew just how much the tragedy would break her and if he would survive the next few moments.

"You lie!" she she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes ablaze.

"If only."

He took a stepped closer and extended his hand so she could see what lay within it. She did not want to look, did not want it to be true. Were it not for the groves in the stone that indicated what it had once been, Demona could have pretended it was any other rock, but she had seen the massacre at Castle Wyvern and knew all to well what it was. She stared at the fragment of stoned wing in the king's outstretched hand.

"I am so very sorry. I know no apology will..."

With a flick of her tail, the gargoyle knocked the offending object from his hand, and before he could react, ran for the window and hopped on the ledge. Before she could take off, Macbeth's hand was on her shoulder, halting her.

"Wait!" he pleaded. "The Hunter or his men may still be there. The clan _is_ gone, but there is no need for you to share their fate. We're going into the mountains, through the Cairnamounth Pass. Come with us."

The force of her blow may not have been enough to kill him, but it did sent the king flying into the wall a good thirty feet away. He rose after slowly, and Demona dimly heard shouts and frantic knocking at the door. A moment later the queen rushed in, immediately running to her husbands' side, but by then Demona was well to wing.

She did not stop to wonder where the sudden phantom pain in her head and back had come from.

Macbeth watched her glide away towards the east, presumably toward the cave to see with her own eyes that he had spoken the sad truth. He allowed a final moment of guilt and grief to wash over him before nodding to himself and taking Gruoch's hand in his own, squeezing it lightly.

"There is nothing more I can do for her," he said. "Come. We must see to our own people now."

* * * * * * * * * *

_Again. It happened again. There is no rebuilding after this. I am finally the last. Finally alone._

_Alone... Alone..._

The thought pulsated in Demona's mind as she stood among the rubble of her decimated clan. She was frozen in place, as if the sun still entrapped her in stone. The numbness was almost as absolute as the stone sleep and infinity colder, and yet she could not allow it to relinquish its hold on her, for Demona feared it was the only thing keeping her upright. She could not break down and weep. The gargoyles doubted she had tears left to spare, having cried them all out decades ago at ruins of Wyvern.

_No_, she thought suddenly, raising her eyes from the dead. _This is not the same as Wyvern_.

Demona was certainly no stranger to the hopeless feeling of loss, of being alone, but something was different about this massacre. It was not until she closed her eyes, letting unshed tears slip past her lids, that it finally came to her.

It was the smell.

All those years ago, she had returned to Wyvern to find the clan destroyed, the scent that permeated her memory was the strong smell of the castle's burning ruins. It was different here. She would not have expected anything in particular, but wondered why she had not noticed something as foul as the stench of dead flesh, made worse by the hot July day that preceded this awful night, that was all around the cave.

Gargoyles remained stone if shattered, even into the night. If they were killed during the night, their bodies still turned to stone during the day but never reverted back. A cleaner way of returning to the earth than most other species. Dead gargoyles did not rot. Demona scanned the cave for the source of the smell and was aghast to find slain men among the rubble. Hissing, she advanced on the nearest body, fully intending to rip it to shreds. How dare these humans spoil her clan's final resting place with their stench?!

Then she stopped.

These were Macbeth's men.

Somewhere amidst her grief and pain, reason reared its head. These humans were charged with guarding her clan during the day. They obviously failed miserably, but they were still here. They had not run when they saw the Hunter's forces approaching. They stayed and fought and died in their duty to her clan. It had not changed the outcome and earned them their own deaths, but they had remained.

It meant something. Demona was not certain what that something was. Perhaps she was not ready to admit it, but something had shifted in that moment, much like it had last night when she stayed long enough to overhear the Scottish king refuse to forswear her kind in return for a swift en to the war.

The last of the gargoyles gathered all the strength she could muster to her. She could sort it all out later. Dead was dead, but the Hunter was still out there, and she would make him pay blood for blood for the decimation of her kind. Turning her back on the gravesite, she stalked back to the mouth of the cave, ready to take off after her prey, when she realized she had no idea where he was. Battles sprung up everywhere, how was she to find one puny human amidst all those mindless masses?

Castle Moray was under siege, she knew that much. It was likely that the Hunter was at the head of that attack, but she knew full well that the English would soon find the castle empty of anyone of worth. Demona had no interest in returning there when there was a good chance her quarry would be long gone by then. Once they made short work of the castle, what would be their next move? It was the king they wanted. After they destroyed the gargoyles, their next obvious target would be Macbeth. If she tracked him down, the Hunter would not be far behind.

What had he said? Demona silently cursed her then rage-induced momentary blindness as she tried to remember the monarch's words before her attempt to make him a bloody mural on the wall of the Great Hall. The Cairnamounth Pass, around Lumphanan Hill. She knew the area well enough. It was not far, especially by flight. Demona took to the air.

All around she saw fires burning bellow, men clashing arms in furious battles. Demona had no time for them, no interest in what was now a purely human conflict. They could bludgeon themselves to mutual death, and the world would be better for it, as far as she was concerned. It did not matter. There was only one man she wanted. The search did not take long. Civilians moved slowly, carrying heavy previsions in carts and on horses making the tracks deep and easy to spot even from the air, especially with the help of the light of the night's full moon. The king and queen had been the last to leave. If she just followed the tracks, sooner or later they would lead her back to Macbeth and eventually, the Hunter.

The ground turned rocky bellow, forcing Demona to land as the tracks in the hard earth became nearly impossibly to see from the air. She padded the soil, noting that the tracks continued in the same direction, then took off at a run on all fours. There was shouting in the distance, too few voices to be armies, but nevertheless she heard the clash of steel. Abandoning the tracks, Demona turned to follow the sounds of battle. She made it to the sharp crest of a hill within seconds just in time hear Queen Grouch scream...

...and see a young dark-haired man drive a sword through Macbeth's heart.

Demona fell to the ground bellow, a dead weight.

* * * * * * * * * *

Darkness. But then...

"I know the pain is great, child," said a familiar voice.

"...but you are unharmed," added the same voice, but seemingly from a different direction.

"Waken, now, to the fate you have made for yourself," concluded a third from yet another place.

Slowly, Demona rose. By fate, she felt awful and weary of waking up disoriented twice in one night. What had happened this time? She did not remember fighting or being struck, but the sharp, slowly subsiding pain begged to differ.

Whatever conflict had taken place, it was over now. The three crones stood to the side, but she ignored them, staring at the fallen king and his mate who was on the ground sobbing over the body. The woman lifted her silver haired head, but Demona offered no condolences, even if Macbeth was the one human whose death she could have morned. Her gaze was one of nothing but mute question.

"Canmore," the queen said simply, refusing to wipe her tears.

Demona was about to ask who in blazes was Canmore when it came to her. She remembered a small angry human child seventeen years ago, remembered telling him not to throw away his life when he made a haphazard attempt to slay her with a blunt dagger. She'd easily tossed him away. It was only much later that Demona had noticed the Hunter's mask was missing.

"Canmore is the Hunter," the gargoyle hissed, more to herself than the human woman.

Grouch nodded, then gasped as the three hags moved closer. The queen stepped away and moved to stand next to the gargoyle as the Weird Sisters circled around Macbeth's body. Their singular voice that emanated from three different throats spoke to the slain man not without a note of pity.

"Poor Macbeth. Canmore was wrong about you and Demona."

"He said when one dies, both die..."

"...but when one lives, both live."

Half in amazement, half in horror, the women watched as the king got to his feet, wincing and rubbing the back of his neck, but otherwise none the worse for wear. His eyes fell on them before the crones reclaimed everyone's attention with more chilling words.

"And thus you both shall live, eternally linked..."

"...sharing each other's pain and anguish..."

"...with no release, until one destroys the other."

"Only then shall both finally perish. Together."

They watched the witches fade into the thickening fog.

Macbeth, apparently fully recovered from death, stepped towards his queen who stepped back, convinced he was a specter. Demona ignored the humans and their sentiments. She was no stranger to sorcery, and the sisters' words unnerved her. Precisely _what_ had they done to them? _Later_, she decided. Everything could wait she had vengeance.

"Well, you're alive," she said coming towards Macbeth and his now somewhat pacified mate. "Let's go. We have a score to settle."

Still holding the queen's hands, Macbeth turned his head to look at her. "You're with me, then?"

"At least long enough to see the Hunter dead and rotting."

"Then let us..."

"Are you both mad?" Grouch looked from one warrior to the other. "You cannot hope to defeat Canmore alone."

"Not alone," Macbeth shook his head. "I must get to Luach. Together we can still win this battle."

"No," the queen protested. "Luach wears your crown. You are already accused of sorcery. Even your loyal Scotsmen will fear yo now. The only hope of victory for your son and your country is for your to remain dead."

"But I am not dead!"

"Then you must disappear. Leave Scotland and me forever. It's the only way."

Demona did not particularly care for the 'how', as long as she was the one who tore Canmore's still-beating heart from his chest. Her tail lashed back and for in impatiens. She was tired of the two of them arguing.

"This is pointless!" she stepped between them. "You heard the Weird Sisters; there is nothing the Hunter can do. The only way for us to die is if one kills the other, and you are safe from me. You are the only human who can claim this."

She glanced at the king with a measure of reluctance at the admission. Macbeth looked thoughtful but far from convinced, choosing contemplative silence in favor of allowing his wife to speak.

"They may not be able to kill you," Grouch said to Demona, "but there are other ways to be rid of you both, no short of eternal imprisonment. And you do not know the extent of this sorcery. What if someone smashes you during the day? Neither of you can ever safely go back. Surely you see the truth of it."

The gargoyle roared her defiance, but Macbeth simply nodded in sad agreement, already relinquishing the struggle. That only made her angrier.

"Coward! I will go alone then, as always. I will have my vengeance!"

"Do what you must," the king said, resigned. "I failed to uphold the terms of our bargain last morning. I hold you to nothing else."

He turned to his wife, locking her gaze.

"I will always love you," he swore and kissed her deeply and passionately one last time before turning and heading down the north side of Lumphanan Hill without a single look back.

Demona and Grouch stood in silence. The queen brought her fingertips to her lips, still feeling her beloved husband's touch there. Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to cry.

"Go with him," she said, not looking at the gargoyle. "I beg of you. I would but I could, but my son needs at least one of his parents."

A fresh wave of anger washed over Demona. "If you think I would give up my revenge to follow him around, you are delusional."

"If you attack Canmore, if he discovers you live, sooner or later he will suspect Macbeth is alive as well. He'll never be safe."

"Canmore drove a sword through him, and it didn't stick. He is safe enough."

"It is not only for Macbeth," the queen said. "It is for you as well. Is there nothing you want more from this world than vengeance?"

"No."

"And once you kill Canmore, what then?" she took a step closer, and Demona might have been impressed knowing full well that the woman carried a measure of fear of her. "You are the last of your kind, and there is no curse greater than loneliness. "

_**Author's End Note:**_ I love Grouch oh so much. I just finished reading Susan Fraser King's "Lady Macbeth" - highly _highly_ recommend it - which is all about her, and between that and Gargoyles I have to say that there are very few historical women I love nearly as much. Screw the Shakespeare version. She'll definitely be mentioned again in the story, but I'm a little sad that I won't get a chance to write her again :( Demona and Macbeth will sourly be need that voice of reason more often than not in the coming years.


	4. Chapter 3: My Spirit Will Go On

_**Author's Note:**_ Again, thank you everyone who reviewed the previous chapters. I'm really excited about this story, as you can tell ^_^ Enjoy and please review!

**Chapter 3**

**My Spirit Will Go On**

Neither said anything when she landed quietly by his campsite in the woods many hours later. If Macbeth was surprised to see her, he did not comment. All the previsions that came with him when he fled Castle Moray were laid out on the ground before him: two flasks, one of water and one of wine, a bag of dried meat, cheese, and bread. A knife was tucked safely into his boot and his sword still hung in a sheath at his waist. A pouch with some gold coins was sown into the inside of his tunic. It was not much, but it would suffice. Macbeth may not have planned for a fugitive life just then, but before his untimely death Macbeth and Gruoch were on the retreat and had taken some measures to prepare.

No fire burned between them when the gargoyles settled on the other side of the makeshift encampment. Macbeth was glad the night was warm, for a fire would have surely invited unwanted company. He picked up the flask of water, thought better of it, and replaced it with the flask of wine. Taking a long swig of it, he wordlessly handed it to Demona. She took it without thanks. It went without saying that the wine was welcomed.

They continued to sit in silence, each quietly morning all that was lost in the last day. If tears were shed, they were not in the other's presence. Finally, when it got closer to dawn, Demona rose her head.

"Where will you go?" she asked.

If Macbeth noticed her intentional use of the word 'you' instead of 'we', he did not comment. Demona would either come or go of her own will. He had no desire to argue.

"South to England is out of the question," said the man who had been high king of Scotland mere hours ago, "as is east across the North Sea. Denmark is allied with the English, and I have no love for the Vikings in the other Norse countries. Iceland is too far north. That leaves only the west and Ireland."

Demona thought about that for a moment. "You'll have to cross the whole of Scotland."

"Aye, some miles over a hundred to Loch Linnhe. From there, a boat can be taken."

"A hundred miles is hardly a significant distance by air," she said. "Even if there are only seven or eight hours of darkness this time of year."

"But it means I can only travel during those hours as well," Macbeth reminded her. "I will not leave you unattended during the day."

"Spare me," Demona spat. "I've seen the the good that guardianship does."

He lowered his eyes and tore off a piece of dried meat. It was touch as old leather and nearly impossible to chew, for which he was secretly pleased as it gave him something else to focus on instead of the gargoyle's hard gaze. But if

"One gargoyle can hide easier than many," she said less harshly, "and the Hunter believes I died with you. He will not think to look for me."

"Very well," Macbeth agreed reluctantly, "but I will remain with you until we are well away from Moray."

"And then?"

He considered it. "I can cover, perhaps, twenty-five miles a day on foot. Thirty, at best. I am in descent shape, but a body at this age has limits."

The irony that his youth was given onto her must have been completely lost on Demona, for she did not look at all impressed and let it show.

"That would take me less than two hours. We could obtain a horse for you," she suggested.

"Horses are easy to track," Macbeth shook his gray head. "Besides the terrain turns quite mountainous about half the way there. I will walk in the morning and early afternoon, then sleep, and have the pleasure of your company for the hours you do not need for flight at night."

It seemed like as sound a plan as any. Demona mentally pictured the space they had to cover, flying over it in her mind. The smooth azure skin of her brow creased ever so slightly.

"You said our destination is Loch Linnhe. Is that anywhere near the Point of Ardnamurchan?"

Macbeth's brow rose at such an apparently random question. "The northern end of the loch is about fifty mikes east of there. Why do you ask?"

Demona seemed lost in her own thoughts, then shook her head. "No reason."

He did not believe her for a moment but knew better than to ask. Macbeth looked to the east, to the thin line of dawn. "It will be sunrise within moments. Rest. We will set out at dusk."

The gargoyle nodded and favored her sitting position with wings folded around her shoulders for a more typical ready-to-strike pose for her stone sleep. The less space she took up, the better.

"Until sunset, Macbeth."

" Until sunset, Demona."

* * * * * * * * * *

The next few days and nights were spent in the same monotonous manner. They traveled during the night and rested in the day. On the third day, when they were away from Moray's western border and Demona had found thick in which to spend her stone sleep, Macbeth chanced to leave her alone and explore the near by area on his own. He had a hope to find a village, buy some more food, and perhaps hear news of the tide of battle. Not used to being on his own or with such a quiet companion, Macbeth craved some normal human interaction.

The former king had intentionally avoided other people thus far. Despite what the later histories – largely tainted by a certain work of literature – would say about him, Macbeth had been a good king. Scotland enjoyed seventeen years of prosperity under his rule, not the least of which was due to the fact that he had never been afraid to get his hands dirty. If there was a local conflict that required his attention, Macbeth always rode forth to attend the matter in person. It made him much beloved in his time, but now the attentiveness was working against him. Within Moray, his face was sure to be recognized. Even outside of it, Macbeth had to be cautions. After all, his was a face that had not changed at all in the past seventeen years.

He tried not to think about that in the same manner he tried not to think about his death.

Macbeth managed to find only half of what he hoped for. Not a village but a solitary farm stood less than a mile from the edge of the woods. He stopped, wondering how he should present himself. Even without a crown and with the gold seal of Moray tucked under his tunic, his clothes were far too fine for anyone to believe he was a simple traveler. It became a moot point when he saw smoke rising from several locations on the farm.

_Too far inland for Viking raiders_, he thought grimly as he pushed open the front door. _More likely than not the English came through here._

Not much was left. The stables were emptied by the enemy army and the farm animals were gone too. Most of the supplies in the storehouse were gone as well, but he did find some more bread and meat in the kitchen. Macbeth was especially pleased by the small stash of fruits and vegetables he discovered there. After days of eating everything dry, his mouth longed for something green. He refilled the water flask at the well, silently mourned the lack of wine, and collected another knapsack full of provisions.

Upstairs he was unsurprised to find the bedrooms had already been ransacked. Farmers were not known to own anything of value but it did not stop the passing army from looking. They had, however, left behind something of great worth to Macbeth: several plain tunics and other clothes fit for travel. He quickly shed his own garments and tried them on. They would suffice, though the farmer who had owned them before must have been considerably larger both in hight and width. Impressive, considering Macbeth himself has hardly a small man. He was well built and stood an inch or so above Demona, even on her high arched feet. The fact had always annoyed the gargoyle which in turn amused him.

Macbeth returned in the early evening to find Demona awake and waiting for him. He tossed the knapsack of food to her and went to start the fire. They were far enough away that he deemed it safe, not so much for the light – the moon had been full days ago and still made for a fairly bright night – but rather for the warmth. It may have been the middle of summer, but the nights were still uncomfortably damp. The gargoyle fished out an impressive slice of salted pork and bit into it greedily.

"Fine new clothes for the king," she commented on his clearly previously owned beige tunic, britches, and traveling cloak.

"Less conspicuous than the former," he said, tugging on the material before reconciling to the fact that it would never fit well.

Macbeth felt something cool against his chest and reached inside to pull out the sigil of Moray. His calloused fingers traced the emblem etched in the soft gold. Macbeth had worn it for most of his adult life in the same manner he wore the plain gold band of his wedding ring that still rested around his left ring finger. He had never considered to be parted from those items, but looking at the sigil of his clan, he wondered if he had still had any right to it.

A dead man has no need for treasures, after all.

"If you like," the gargoyle offered, as if reading his thoughts, "I could fly it back to Moray. Your wife knows you live. It would be easy enough to find her and pass it on."

"So she may give it to Luach," he mused. "No. Other things may become part of history. Let this alone, this single token, remain apart from it as I am. It will be my personal history. This was my father's, after all."

He could read the comment on Demona's face as if she had said it aloud. _It was your fathers, but you do not wish it to be Luach's. You would give him your crown, but not your heritage._ He was grateful she did not say it. It shamed him to think this way. He tucked the sigil back inside his tunic.

* * * * * * * * * *

Macbeth's earlier prediction about their pace had been overly optimistic. It took them more than a week to reach the north end of Loch Linnhe, and July had turned to August. Once the highlands were behind them, the mountains made Macbeth's daily progress slow and minimal. He was glad that he had decided to keep his own tailor-made boots when he had discarded the rest of his clothing. The terrain was making short work of his feet. Their only consolation was that the mountains provided plenty of caves for Demona to spend her days in relative safety.

Supplies were beginning to dwindle by the time the mountains ended, and one night Macbeth suggested hunting. He soon wished he had not, because a few hours later Demona returned with their knapsacks restocked with more bread and fruit and something that smelled distinctly like fried fish. Macbeth was pleased, until a terrible thought occurred to him. _Fried_ fish?

"Where did you get all this?"

"There is a fishing village a few miles east of here," the gargoyle replied, taking a large bite of an apple. "It would be too far for you to walk out of the way, but by flight..."

"You didn't kill anyone, did you?" the former king interrupted. Demona stared at him blankly, as if not comprehending. Macbeth was horrified. "You didn't! They are still my people! Still Scotsmen!"

"Scotsmen, Vikings, English," she waved a taloned hand dismissively. "It makes no difference. Human borders mean nothing to me."

Macbeth stared at her, wondering if he should remind the gargoyle that he was human as well. After a moment, he decided against it.

"How many more Hunters do you plan on creating?" he demanded instead, not so subtly reminding her of Gillecomgain, the original Hunter. That got a reaction from the gargoyle. Demona hissed, a low angry warning for him to back off, but he continued. "I do not care to know what you did this night, but I will not condone the slaughter of innocents. No killing, unless it is in defense. Swear it."

"You must be joking," she looked appalled.

"Swear it," he pressed, "or this journey ends here and now."

For a moment, Macbeth wondered if she would lash out or simply laugh at him. He was under no illusion that he could, in any way, make her do anything. That was something no one, save perhaps Guoch, ever seemed to understand. Demona had been his ally, never his subordinate. In fact, Macbeth had a hard time imagining anyone she would ever bow her head to.

To his everlasting surprise, that was exactly what she did.

"As my king commands."

Her tone was heavy with both sarcasm and amusement as she humored him with a mock bow. He ignored her, knowing that it was the best he could hope for. At the very least, she might think twice the next time she had an urge to take a life needlessly. Macbeth let it drop.

"Where is this village of yours, again?" he asked, and Demona pointed a talon in the general direction. "I will go there tomorrow and see if I can secure a boat for passage. It may take a few days."

"And what am I to do while you catch up on the local gossip?" she demanded.

"Whatever you like, within reason," Macbeth quickly amended. "I, for one, look forward to finding the nearest inn and spending a few nights in a bed."

His back was stiff from over a week of sleeping on the hard ground with nothing but his clothes and cloak for a between him and the soil. Demona rolled her eyes, no doubt thinking that the comforts that had come with his thus far quite privileged life had spoiled him. Macbeth only laughed.

"I suppose you have to be human to appreciate the comforts of a soft bed."

"How tragic that I will never know," sarcasm again. "Fine. Go. I'll find you in a few days."

Macbeth reached the village by noon the next day. It was the first time since leaving Moray that he had a chance to talk to other people, and the former king was wary at first. However, he quickly discovered that not only did people not recognize him, they did not particularly care where he had come from, as long as he was not bringing an army along to ransack their village. The community had been spared much of the fighting and did not care to get involved.

As he promised himself, the first thing Macbeth found was an inn and requested a room for the night. The plump good-natured housekeeper told him that the accommodations came with meals and that the day's special was roast duck. Macbeth happily agreed to remain for lunch. He struck up a conversation with several men who shared a table with him, introducing himself as Ruari mac Fergus, a name borrowed from a long gone friend from his old life. When he expressed interest in a boat to sail to Ireland, Macbeth was met with several quiet nods.

"Wishin' to escape the fighting, do you?" asked one of the men, not unsympathetically.

"In a manner," Macbeth nodded. "I lost my wife and child to the war. I only wish to get away for a while."

"You poor man," the innkeepers' wife came over to place a bowl of soup in front of him. "We've been blessed not to have anyone come through here. I can't imagine my boys being whisked away to fight for some king or other."

"King Luach," another man reminded her. "Didn't you hear? King Macbeth mac Findlaích was killed in ambush in the Cairnamounth Pass over a week ago."

"God rest his soul," the woman crossed herself. "I heard he was a good man and a fine ruler."

Macbeth mentally thanked her for the praise though he doubted his soul would find much rest in the near future. "Has Luach been crowned, then?" he asked eager for news.

As his successor, all the rights and responsibilities would have reverted to Luach immediately upon Macbeth's 'death', but he could not truly be called king until he was crowned upon the Stone of Destiny, the sacred place from which all kings of Scots drew their authority. The stone rested in a monastery at Scone, a little over a hundred miles directly south of Castle Moray. Macbeth wondered if there had been time for such ceremonies amidst the fighting.

"Not yet," replied the stout red haired man to his left. "Word has it he will be within a week or so. If he is even half the man his father was, we have little to fear."

As faltering as all the praise was, Macbeth sensed that people were wary of Luach taking the crown. He knew he should not take it personally – political unrest was never pleasant – but he wanted to change the topic anyway. He suddenly remembered something from over a week ago and raised his silver head.

"Do any of you know something of note around the Point of Ardnamurchan?"

All around him the Catholics crossed themselves for fear while the Celts drew a tipple spiral in the air, a sign of protection of the goddess Brìghde. Obviously he would have to step carefully.

"Ardnamurchan Point," said a man to his left in a hushed tone. "A haunted place that is."

Macbeth rose a brow.

"Aye, especially the abandoned castle that sits atop Wyvern Hill. Castle Wyvern. They say a princess lived there some sixty years ago, but it stands empty now."

"Empty save for the demons that dwell there!" exclaimed a woman, clutching at her crucifix.

"Perhaps the Fair Folk?" Macbeth suggested with light humor, but he was secretly intrigued. What could Demona have wanted from a supposedly haunted castle?

"You're both of you daft," came a wizened voice.

Everyone gathered around the table to look in the direction, and Macbeth saw an old man huddled in the corner. 'Old' was too generous a word to describe him though. He was easily well over seventy, with gnarled bony hands. He hobbled over to the table and focused a dark look on each and everyone gathered there. His sunken eyes lingered on Macbeth for a little longer than the former king was comfortable with, but he moved on.

"I was but a lad in a nearby village when it happened," the grandfather continued. "One night Viking raiders came and were beaten back, too, but they returned two days later at daybreak. No human dwelt in the castle since."

So that was the story. Macbeth leaned back in his chair. A coastal castle attacked by Viking raiders. It was common enough that he did not think to ask the man to elaborate until his words finally sunk in.

"Why did they successed in their second attack but not the first?" Macbeth asked, though he had a good suspicion as to the answer.

"Because, lad," the ancient fixed him with a pointed look. "'Tis terribly difficult to take down a castle full of gargoyles at night."

All around him people burst out laughing, taking the man for a good storyteller but a fool. Macbeth hardly heard them, his blue-gray eyes sparkling with curiosity and excitement. Without a second thought, he reached into the pouch at his waist and held a gold coin high in the air for all to see.

"I need to borrow a horse."

_**Author's End Note:**_ Some notes on history: Despite his bad reputation now, historians say Macbeth was considered a good king in his day, so all praise I heap onto him in this chapter is there for a reason. If you don't know what that whole exchange in the middle of the chapter regarding the sigil of Moray was all about, I'm not going to tell you. It'll come up again in the story and be made more clear. If you really want to know now, go look up a wikipedia entry on the historical Lulach.


	5. Chapter 4: Paradise Lost

_**Author's Note:**_ Lots of commentary in the author's end note. Once again, a big thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapters, especially my two betas fir this one. Enjoy and please review!

**Chapter 4**

**Paradise Lost**

He set out around in the late afternoon. Macbeth figured that at a steady gallop he could cover the fifty odd miles within a few hours and be back in the village late in the evening. Even if he had to spend another night in the woods, it was not a particularly big issue. They were far enough away from any fighting, and Demona would not come looking for him for a few days. He had plenty of time to explore this so-called haunted castle.

Knowing that Wyvern Hill was somewhere near the ocean, so as soon as he heard the crash of waves, Macbeth began ridding north along the coast and was soon rewarded when the stone towers appeared on the next crest. He urged the black stallion faster until the entire castle unfolded before him, lit from behind by the sun rapidly setting in the west. As it turned out, Castle Wyvern was more of a sight from a distance.

After Moray, Edinburgh, and many others, Macbeth was not particularly impressed with the structure, especially as it was obvious that it had been allowed to fall into decay. The stone was darkened by fire in many places but otherwise remained perfectly intact and looked sturdy enough. The place showed its age most when he looked a he doors and beams or anything else made out of wood. Whatever remained barely hung on its hinges, but most of the wood had rotted away. After a little over sixty years, nature had already reclaimed much of her own, as was evident from the growing moss and ivy.

As underwhelmed as he was by the castle itself, Macbeth was in awe of the six stone figures that adorned the parapets of the tallest tower. He had seen enough to know they were no ordinary statues. Gargoyles; he was sure of it. Macbeth raced up the steps, slowing down only when he stumbled on a stone that had come loose. He emerged onto the last circuit before the roof of the tower and was greeted with five of the six figures.

If there had been doubt that these were gargoyles, they evaporated when he former king saw he statues up close. No stone carved by human hand had ever looked so alive. He circled to each in turn, softly whistling his approval a the enormous knife, most likely of Viking origin, in the hand of the oldest looking of the figures. The last, a great wingless beast, intrigued Macbeth as well. Demona had told him of such creatures among the more common humanoid gargoyles, but he had never actually seen one. Recalling the sixth one on the rooftop, the former king ascended the staircase once more.

He was different than the rest, Macbeth noticed, and not just because this was the largest gargoyle he had ever seen. One leader could recognize another, and he had a strong suspicion that The other five appeared as if they had been caught by sunrise mid-strike, as was the typical gargoyle sleep form, but the one on the roof sat haunched in silent contemplation, his chin propped up on a fist.

_The thinker_, Macbeth mentally daubed him and stepped forward for a closer look.

He never got the chance.

A bone-chilling shriek pierced the air, followed seconds later by Demona landing hard between him and the stone form. Her taloned feet dug into the stone, leaving the roof floor dimpled. He wanted to say something, but then he saw the fire blazing in her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" the gargoyle's voice was terrifying.

"I..." Macbeth could not remember ever seeing her this angry. Not when he'd told her her clan was gone or when he said he would not help her seek vengeance on Canmore. He straightened his back and did his best not to look more frightened than he did when he was a boy.

"I know the story," he tried again. "The people in the village..."

"You know nothing!" she shrieked.

It was at that moment that it occurred to Macbeth that if she was here, it meant the sun had set. The sun had set... but these other six gargoyles were still... He looked at Demona and noticed something wet and red running down her face. Blood? Was she injured?

No.

It was not blood, but tears illuminated by the red glow of her eyes.

"Get out," the gargoyle hissed, one hand resting protectively on the wing of the large male. "Get out!"

And because he had already died once in the last two weeks and had no desire to do so again, Macbeth fled. He had little doubt that if he had stood his ground, Demona would have torn him to shreds, even if it meant her own death. When he was once again a horse and at the edge of the woods, he turned for one last look at Castle Wyvern.

He was not certain, but Macbeth thought he saw Demona crouched next to the large statue, doubled over as if in excruciating pain.

* * * * * * * * * *

_Castle Moray, Scotland, February 1058 A.D._

Lady Gruoch, dowager queen of Scotland, stopped humming her bitter-sweet song and finally gave up on her needle-work when it became apparent that no amount of candlelight could supplement the sun. Her eyes were just not nearly as good as they used to be. Besides it was rude to ignore company.

"Please closer that window cover. You're letting in the draft."

Demona did not argue, pulling the thick piece of stretched skin back in place. Gruoch rose from her seat and added a few more logs to the fireplace. The human woman shivered. February was always the worst of the winter months, but this one seemed particularly bad. She turned to the gargoyle.

"How can you not be freezing?" she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"Gargoyles are thick-skinned," Demona replied. "Cold does not bother us."

"Maybe not," the woman said shrewdly, "but something is. Did anyone see you enter?"

The female gargoyle gave a very unladylike snort. "Humans rarely look up."

"Do we? I had not thought of it," Gruoch sat back down. "Did Macbeth send you for news of the war?"

"I take no orders from any human!" Demona's eyes flashed red.

"Of course not," she bowed her head. "Forgive me, I misspoke. But why _are_ you here, then? Your company is not unwelcome, but you know my concerns."

The gargoyle hesitated, looking down at the faded carpet on the stone floor. Some of the castle had been repaired, but there were signs of the fire from months ago everywhere. It was probably not safe for the dowager queen to remain here, but some very basic gargoyle instinct made Demona understand why she stayed. It was her home, and she would not abandon it so easily. She may have never admitted it, but such an act, worthy of a gargoyle, made Demona feel a certain amount of kinship with the human woman. It also served to spark the feelings of guilt for leaving Wyvern behind. Demona pushed them away.

"All of my rookery sisters are dead."

She did not know quite how to phrase it, but Gruoch seemed to understand that it was the best way she knew how to ask for the counsel of another woman. She nodded quietly and folded her hands in her lap, looking like a perfect proper lady. Not for the first time, Demona reflected on just how different this human was. Frightened still, but composed and honest in the face of that fear rather than angry and hateful as was so typical for her kind. It was little wonder she was a fit mate for a king.

"How may I be of service?"

"You can tell me how you do it. Continue on without your mate."

This time there was real fear in the human woman's eyes. Demona quickly held up her hands.

"He lives, as I do," she reminded the dowager queen, "but dead to you for all intended purposes. How do you make peace with that? Knowing that you can never be with him again."

Gruoch breathed in then exhaled slowly. Her gaze was far away.

"I make peace with it because I must," she finally replied. "What good would it do Macbeth or anyone else if I were to wallow in my misery? I find anchors in memories and the knowledge that nothing will ever change my love for my husband, no passage of time nor space between us, and live with what I have."

The gargoyle turned her words over in her mind then nodded. "Your child is your anchor."

For the first time that night, and perhaps in months, Gruoch smiled. "That song I was singing when you came? It was a lullaby I used to sing to my Luach when he was but a babe. 'Tis sad, true, but brings promise that no matter how great the sorrow, there is always hope in life. Children are like that; a promise of home." She gave her a curious look. "Do you have any children?"

Demona was the first person to admit surprise that she did not lash out at the other woman for asking such a personal question. "No... I don't know," she lowered her head. "There were children. My clan's children. I don't know what happened to them."

"Have you considered seeking them?" there was no judgment in Gruoch's voice.

"I have nothing to offer them."

"But they may have something to offer you."

In her mind, Demona saw them. The gargoyle eggs being whisked away from the burnt Castle Wyvern by the princess and the white-haired wizard. Sixty years was still a long time, even for a gargoyle whose lifespan were twice that of a human. They would be adults now, if they lived. Possibility of life. It was something she dared not hope for in a long time.

Obsidian eyes met moss-green ones, and they shared an understanding. Demona did not have to thank her for the insight, and Gruoch asked no other questions. That much surprised the gargoyled a little.

"You do not wish to know of Macbeth."

Gruoch smiled sadly. "I'd like to think I'm strong," she said wistfully. "Perhaps not as strong as you, but strong enough. If he is alive and well, that is all I need to know. Anything else..."

"I understand." And she did.

Demona turned to go.

"You're wrong, you know," she said half-way out the window, so quietly that Gruoch was not sure if she heard her at all. "You are much stronger than I."

She had not stopped to think what such an admission in front of a human meant, but in the end, it did not matter much. Demona soon found herself back in the woods around Wyvern Hill. She may not have gathered the will to go back o the castle again, but the caves provided enough cover for her during the day and the frosts were fertile hunting ground. She quickly entered a pattern of sneaking to the nearby villages and, for hours unseen, listening to the humans talk. Perhaps she would hear news if there were others left of her kind, harboring a secret hope to hear something of the fate of the gargoyle eggs from Wyvern.

A few weeks into March, an entirely different kind of news reached her.

King Luach was dead, assassinated by mere months after his crowning. The dowager queen, Lady Gruoch, was gone as well. Accounts of her passing varied. People said that she had been assassinated along with her son, or later because she refused to bend the knee. Others insisted it was death of a broken heart, of sorrow. Some even went as far as to whisper the word 'suicide'. Having been acquainted with the woman for years, though she had come to know her only recently, Demona never believed those particular rumors.

The whole of Scotland was now under the rule of Malcolm III, formally known as Malcolm Canmore mac Donnchada.

* * * * * * * * * *

_Iona Abbey, Scotland, March 1058 A.D._

The late March night was dank and dreary. Demona may not have minded the cold, but the bleakness and decay of the grave yard made even her skin crawl. Humans – more precisely the humans of Scotland – considered the entire island of Iona a holy place, but it was especially true of the monastery where the kings of Scotland were had been buried for countless generations. Demona knew that she would find him there, despite the danger. Considering the circumstances, she did not expect rationality.

It did not take her long to find him kneeling at one of the more obscure grave markers. Its existence came not without a little surprise to her. Canmore's – now Malcolm III's – reputation was ruthless. The fact that Luach received a gravestone at all was testament to just how loyal some of the Scots remained to him or perhaps to Macbeth's memory. The aforementioned king wept unconscionably, one hand resting on the stone, as if it was his only anchor.

"Macbeth," she reached out to touch his shoulder but he violently shrugged away her hand.

"Leave me be," he begged through the flood of tears.

"I will not," she said harshly. "Many will be coming through here. It will mean trouble for us both if you are discovered."

"If _I_ am discovered?"

She did not see it coming but he was atop her in an instant, dagger pressing deep into the skin of her throat. Her tail and wings beat against the ground more in instinct than anything else as she struggled to get the weight of him off of her. She saw a thin red line of blood welled up on the pale skin of his own throat even before she felt the pain herself.

"Stop this!" Demona demanded. "I do not yet have a death wish, and neither do you."

"You have no idea what I wish," the former king shook his gray head vehemently. "My wife, my son, my whole family is gone, and I..."

"You wish to join them," she finished calmly, "but this is only temporary. The feeling will pass. Maybe not for many decades, but it will eventually it will not hurt as much."

For whatever reason, probably because there was no more fight left in him, Macbeth let her rise but he himself remained on his knees at his son's grave. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, still holding the dagger. Demona crouched by him.

"How can you ever understand?" he whispered. "I know you lost your clan, but this is different. Luach was an infant in my arms. I've loved him from the moment her came into this world till the moment he left it, and never have I dreamed I would outlive him. No parent should have to bury their child. And Gruoch... I," he was at a loss for words and hung his head again. "I don't even know where she is laid to rest."

"She _is_ at rest, though," Demona said calmly. "Let that be enough. And you're wrong, Macbeth; I understand far better than you know."

With one swift motion she grabbed his arm and flung him over one her shoulder. Macbeth barely had time to comprehend what was happening, but he instinctively tightened his grip when she began to climb the wall of the nearest monastery, presumably to take to flight from the top of the building.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, momentarily shocked out of his grief.

"Showing you that I _do_ know the pain. Now stop struggling. It is a short distance, but you are not light. I do not want to be responsible for you falling to your death."

As she promised, the flight was short. Macbeth, unaccustomed to being so high up, kept his eyes shut for most of the journey. It was only after she landed and he had a moment to regain his senses that he realized where they were: back on the rooftop of Castle Wyvern. All too aware of what had happened last time, Macbeth stepped back and watched silently as she walked over to the massive statue he had called the Thinker.

"This," she placed a hand softly on the back of the stone figure, "was Goliath. My mate."

"'was'?" Macbeth asked carefully. "Is he... dead?"

"I do not know," the female gargoyle admitted. "I know neither how this happened nor if it can ever be reversed, but he has been like this for over sixty years. Do not think for a moment that the love we shared was any less than what you had with your queen. He called me his... 'angel of the night'."

She said the last part with great difficulty and sadness. Macbeth cocked his head to the side. He had never seen her like this, had not really considered that she may have ever had a mate. From the time they had met in his youth, all he had ever seen was a great warrior. For all his convictions about the similarities between gargoyles and humans, he had never expected this.

"You still love him."

"I will always love him, but I have to live."

"Why?"

"Because I am still alive."

If he wondered where those words came from, Macbeth did not ask. His eyes focused on Goliath for a long moment, and she wondered what he could be thinking. Finally whatever force of will had sustained the former king fled, and he lowered himself to lean against the nearest parapet as if his legs could no longer support his weight.

"What now?" for a man who had inspired confidence in an entire nation, Macbeth looked terribly defeated, tired, and far too old.

Demona paused.

"It would be well within your right to seek retribution."

He suspected the word she had meant to use was 'vengeance' rather than 'retribution'. Macbeth tried to imagine confronting Canmore, killing the young king, possibly even getting away with it. No matter how he turned the scenario in his head, the image left a bad taste in his mouth. His wife and son had earned their respective places in history. Even a misbegotten youth like Canmore seemed to fit in. Macbeth, too, had had a place months ago, but more and more since his death, the former king had begun to feel as if he were growing apart from the world. _It has only been a few months,_ whispered a fear in his mind. _How will you survive years or decades or possibly even centuries of this?_

"I will not hunt Canmore," he told the gargoyle. "Perhaps I will go to Ireland after all. It may do me some good to get away."

He half-expected her to call him a coward again, but Demona simply nodded. It was hard to tell what she was really thinking. Both remained silent for a while.

"How long do you plan to remain in Ireland?" she asked after a few minutes.

_Until Canmore is dead?_ Macbeth thought mournfully. _Until I, myself, am but a memory?_

"I cannot say," he admitted. "I love Scotland, but there is little left for me there, and the pain is still too great. For now I must go, but I will return one day to visit my family."

"Then that is when I will find you," the gargoyle straightened, spreading her wings, hopped onto the nearest ledge ready to take flight.

"You're not coming with me?" the former king looked up at her.

"No. I have recently been reminded of a... a hope I thought I'd lost long ago. I will seek it for as long as I can, but should you ever need me, I will come."

"Then this is good-bye for now," he said in acceptance and held out his hand. "Until another night, Demona."

"Until another night, Macbeth," she agreed, clasping his forearm in a firm mutual sign of respect and perhaps even friendship, then leapt from the tower.

_**Author's End Note:**_ Okay, here's the big ramble on this chapter then. First of, poor Macbeth! For oh so many reasons but specifically for once again being in a bad situation with Demona. He should have known better than to indulge his curiosity. Of course it's not over. She told him the truth – that there was a massacre and that she doesn't know how the six gargoyles there were entrapped in stone 24/7 – but obviously she hasn't said anything about her role in it. He's going to find out eventually of course.

Second, like I mentioned before I love Lady Gruoch. I got a few comments on how people wished to see more of her interaction with Demona so this little bit came to me. It was also a good place to mention that song or lullaby or whatever for which this whole story is titled. Again, something that'll come up later. I know Demona's more than a little soft and out of character in that scene, but consider her jarred emotional state after Wyvern. And as mentioned within the chapter, it's not going to matter much in the long run since Gruoch dies soon after.

Which brings me to my next point. I'm deliberately breaking canon here. I know Greg Weisman – and Master Shakespeare – both claim that Lady Macbeth committed suicide, but after reading some background on her and rewatching City of Stone I just can't believe that. I left it open-ended, but personally I'd go with the assassination theory. Canmore may have claimed not to 'have any quarrel with her', but maybe one of his men got a little two stab-happy when they came for Luach. The final tragedy, of course, is that Macbeth doesn't even know where she's buried, because we don't know today.

So this is kind of the end of one section of the story. The next post will most likely not be a full chapter but rather an interlude before I skip over a couple centuries. If anything new comes to mind for that "in between" time period, I'll write a side fic or two.


	6. Chapter 5: The Story Ain't Over

_**Author's Note:**_ I'd originally intended this as an interlude but it turned into another chapter, though a short one. The next one skips over about 200 years and will be set in 1294. If some cool story comes to mind between 1093 and 1294, I'll write a side fic or two.

Oh totally side note, in case you haven't seen it already, I have a one-shot unrelated to this story. Inspired by the "Gargoyles – Bad Guys" comic, it'd a Harry 'Dingo' Monmouth/Robyn 'Hunter' Canmore fic called "Nightcaps". Just a fun one-shot. Will have two more with those two in the near future, so look for those soon. Enjoy and please review!

**Chapter 5**

**The Story Ain't Over**

_Ireland, November 1093 A.D._

Seamus Harper, the castle's scholar, was the first to bring the news to Macbeth or Moray mac Earie as he was known in those parts. Seamus was of mixed Scottish and Irish descent as his name indicated and a man of humble origins. His mother had moved to Scotland to be with his father some forty years prior, but returned to Ireland soon after Malcolm III took the throne. Initially he had not taken a great deal of liking to the new Master at Arms who had arrived at the castle some ten years ago but warmed up to him once he learned that not only did Moray hail from Scotland, but he could read and write better than anyone else for miles. Seamus respected a learned man – though he could not fathom why a simple soldier bothered to learn – so the two became friends.

Macbeth was out in the practice yard when the scholar arrived. He had just finished the morning drills with the youngsters and let them run off to break their fasts while he returned the practice swords to their popper place and rested on one of the benches next to the smithy. He did not want to admit it, but Ireland had grown on him after forty years and he throughly enjoyed his role as Master at Arms. Teaching suited him, Macbeth decided. Being around children never failed to renew his ever-dwindling sense of hope for the future.

"I didn't expect to see you so early, Seamus," he grinned at the approaching man. "You're usually barely up by mid-day."

"Not all of us are crazy enough to getting up before the crack of dawn," the scholar returned the smile. "I'm surprised those old bones of yours let you."

"I'm younger than I look," Macbeth laughed at the irony. He did look amazingly well preserved for someone who was bordering ninety, "and I didn't always rise so early, but circumstances change. What brings you out here?"

"This," the other man pulled out a letter from his robes, "arrived by raven. Malcolm III of Scotland is dead."

The smile instantly vanished from Macbeth's lips and he put down the polishing cloth and sword he'd been cleaning. Wiping his hands on his tunic, he took the letter from him.

"When?" he asked even as his eyes scanned the page. "How?"

"Two Sundays ago, in ambush near Alnwick. His son, the prince Edward, was also with him and was mortally wounded. He died soon after as well."

"Alnwick," Macbeth recalled and read the letter again. " 'Ambushed by Robert de Mowbray, Earl of Northumbria, but killed by Arkil Morel, steward of Bamburgh Castle.' Is this for certain? The manner of his death."

"Were you expecting someone else to do the dead?" Seamus raised brow. "Ol' Big Head devastated those lands in some of his bloodier campaigns. It was justice done."

"Justice, aye," Macbeth was thoughtful. He tried not to think of the past. It figured that just as he'd almost convinced himself it no longer hurt as much, everything should come back. The events of the fifty odd years he would always consider as his 'real' life played out before his eyes. He handed the letter back to Seamus.

"Do you think I can make it to Scotland by nightfall?"

Seamus looked surprised by the question. "If you take one of the faster horses and leave immediately. We're not to far from the shore. But what is there for you in Scotland?"

"My family," Macbeth replied. "'Tis past time I paid my respects. And there is a friend I have not seen for many years, though I don not know if she is still there."

"She?" the sparkle in the man's green eyes made him look years younger reverting him almost to boyhood. Macbeth was not amused.

"I'm too old for that kind of talk."

"Heh, the right kind of woman can make any man feel young."

"Seamus..."

"Right, right, your family and your friend. Separately. And meanwhile what should I be telling Lord Kinsley about the sudden disappearance of his Master at Arms?"

"He has men who can take my place in the meantime. I'll return soon enough. Besides, you need to finish telling me about this King Arthur."

* * * * * * * * * *

_Scotland, November 1093 A.D._

No matter how much she wished Canmore had perished at her hands, Demona was pleased to hear of the king's demise. As low of an opinion as she has about humanity as a whole, she hated Canmore and all of his brood with a passion. In forty years of searching, she had not found any trace of a single other gargoyle anywhere in Scotland and had a strong suspicion it was largely thanks to Canmore. The systematic hunting and destruction of her kind in Scotland that began with Constantine III seemed to be back in full force with Canmore, though there had been little to nothing for the king to find.

It was not the lack of others of her kind that surprised her, but more specifically the lack of any trace of her clan's children, alive or otherwise. Even destruction left a trail but all she had managed to learn of their fate was that they had arrived Starthmore with Princess Kathrine's party shortly after the fall of Castle Wyvern. They remained there for a short time until the overthrow of King Kenneth II by Constantine. After that they may as well have vanished into thin air because any and all mentions of them in human histories ended abruptly. The fact that they had been at Starthmore during the overthrow was a bad sign. Constantine's hatred for gargoyles rivaled that of his newly deceased successor. Demona highly doubted the eggs had survived long enough to hatch.

When she learned of the king's death, Demona almost did not go to Castle Wyvern as she had originally intended. Not because of guilt or memories. The truth was that she had been back at her old home more times in the past few decades than she had in the first six since the massacre. The pain was very much there, especially every time she looked upon the strong hard features of her beloved Goliath, but she was slowly coming to accept that this was the way things were. Sometimes being among the ruins of her ancestral home even gave her some comfort. It was just that Demona was not sure she wanted to see any human as anything more than an object of scorn at that moment or really ever again.

In the end she did go, precisely because she knew Macbeth would be along shortly. After all, nearly forty years was a terribly long time not to speak with another sentient being.

* * * * * * * * * *

He went to Iona first, silently glad that she had not chosen to meet him there. Mourning was a very private matter for Macbeth, and at Luach's grave he remembered both his son and wife as they were in life rather than the fact that they were gone. He had wondered on his journey to the holy isle if he would feel a sense of justice of finality with Canmore's passing, but standing over his son's grave, Macbeth felt only sorrow. He lingered there for what felt like many hours, then despite himself, found himself standing before Duncan's and Canmore's fresh grave. Again Macbeth felt only sadness.

_So much sorrow,_ the former king thought, _and all of it born of fear and mistrust. I would have gladly let Duncan remain king and served Canmore loyally as well if my cousin had not made the first move. _It was the truth, Macbeth knew. At least he could take some measure of peace in the knowledge that it was all finally over. With both himself and Demona thought dead, no one else need don the Hunter's mask and no innocents need suffer.

Taking one last long look at the graveyard of kings, Macbeth turned and started back towards the mainland. It was roughly a two hour journey to Wyvern Hill. He would not have the speed of flight this time.

Demona was already waiting for him at what had been the main gate of Castle Wyvern. A glance at the tallest tower told Macbeth that nearly forty years had changed nothing; the six gargoyle figures were still encased in stone. Demona had not changed either, but that was not surprising. Time, it seemed, did no more damage to her body than it did to his. _Though_, he reflected in mild annoyance, _it has to be a great deal more pleasant to spend eternity in early thirties rather than fifties._ They exchanged their usual nods in greeting, as if they had only been apart for a few weeks on some campaign instead of not seeing one another for almost four decades. Neither commented on the lack of the other's aging.

"Well, old friend, how have the decades been?" Macbeth asked without preamble.

"Long. And I suspect the following ones will be even longer. That is not why either of us is here tonight. Canmore is dead."

"So I heard."

"I had nothing to do with it, in case you were wondering," Demona glared at him, a preemptive strike of sorts.

"Oh, I know how he died," Macbeth assured her. "A warrior's death, in the end."

"Ambush in his own lands by his own countrymen is hardly a warrior's death," the gargoyle snorted. "Do not give him that honor."

"Still a death by the sword," mused the old king but did not argue further. "At least it is over."

Demona decided that this was not the right time to mention her run in with Donald Canmore years ago. After all, he was dead as well now. Her face did not betray her thoughts so Macbeth noticed nothing.

"Did you find whatever you were seeking?" he changed the subject.

"No," she replied simply.

"Ah, well, perhaps in the future..."

"I doubt it, but for now I will keep searching."

"Care for company? The decades are far more tolerable when you have someone to talk to."

If he was any other human, she might have laughed in his face. At best. But there was no trace of pity or anything but open honesty in Macbeth's offer. He would leave whatever life he had built up in Ireland to wander around with her. His honor demanded that he at least make the attempt at the offer. It also occurred to her that he was most likely right. She has little desire to spend another several decades or even centuries in isolation. Gargoyles were clan creatures, never alone by choice for prolonged periods of time. Even if that companion was human, it might make life more tolerable.

Demona shook her head. If she allowed him to come with her, she would have to explain what she was seeking sooner rather than later. That would in turn lead to more questions about her old life and eventually the question she dreaded most: how had she survived the massacre? She could not care less about the opinion of a human – so she told herself – but she did not want to walk down that memory path again. It was painful enough as it was. She glanced up at Goliath at the top of the tallest tower and quickly looked away.

"The offer was well made," she told the king, "but I can travel faster on my own. Thank you, all the same."

"As you like," he knew better than to press the issue. "You're welcome to join me in Ireland as well when your search comes to an end."

That did surprise her. "You are not returning to Scotland?"

"Ach, no, not yet," he waved his hand. "I have some years yet till I can no longer play at Master at Arms in the current keep. Safe enough as long as they believe me to be in the sixties. After that I shall have to move again, and who knows? Perhaps I will return to Scotland. Or not. The world is a big place. I should like to explore it, since time seems to be all I have."

The gargoyle was solemn. "Should you happen by others of my kind..."

"I will inform you immediately," he hesitated. "Though I am not certain how I will find you."

"Simple," Demona crossed her arms, "the same way as today. Let us agree to meet again in this very place," she pointed at the castle behind her, "in five decades. The world changes little enough in that time, and we, even less."

"Agreed," Macbeth nodded and looked around, as if for the first time. "The sun will be up within the hour. Do you plan to spend the day here?"

"I had not planned anything," she replied, "but it seems I must. There are some caves in the area that would provide adequate shelter."

"I think I will join you," Macbeth mused. "The hour will allow us to finish talking, and I need to rest as well. I will return to Ireland tomorrow night after you have awakened."

"Very well," she did not thank him for the foresight of guarding her throughout the day. "Follow me."

She did not bother to glide but instead led him along the hard terrain away from the castle to the string of caves east of it. The closer they drew, the more Demona felt an alien uneasiness. She had made some measure of peace with the fall of Wyvern, the loss of her mate and the others, at least enough not to feel excruciating agony at being back here. So where had this sudden fear come from?

"Betrayer," the wind echoed. "Treacherous bitch."

She froze. Those voices... Demona stood still, listening, but they did not return. A moment later a hand on her shoulder jarred her out of the trance.

"What is it?" Macbeth's brows were drawn in concern. Demona was not one to be easily frightened.

"N.. nothing," she did her best to shake off the dread. "Only the whispers of shadows."

_**Author's End Note:**_ Humm wonder what all that creepy whispering was all about... But the little mention of Arthur amuses me oh so much, 'cause we know Macbeth has a seriously manly man crush on him. No no I'm not a slasher by any means. Just like to poke fun where I can. Another fyi, according to Greg Weisman, the modern line of Hunters is descendant from Canmore's son Donald Canmore, thus the reference. The hunt goes on. Next stop: 1294.


	7. Chapter 6: A Place In Time

_**Author's Note:**_ Yeah, I know. It's been a while. I got pretty wrapped up in my Bad Guys fanfics – still am – but I promised I'd never forget this and I haven't. So here starts the next arc of this little what-if fic. There's a 200 year gap between this and the last chapter. Lots of stuff happened, but for the sake of time and sanity we're going to gloss over them. I'll come back and fill in the blanks with side fics if need be.

Also I wanted to let you guys know about a cool thing going on at LiveJournal. I go by "silverspidertm2" over there and I've recently put together a community for a Gargoyles rewatch marathon. The idea is that every week we pick an episode – in order – to rewatch and discuss in hopes of rekindling our love for the show and maybe get new people to watch it. The community is "gargoyles_watch" so please check it out. We're nearly 40 members strong already and just starting with "Awakening" parts 1 and 2 this Friday, so it should be fun.

Thank you for reading and please review!

**Chapter 6**

**A Place In Time**

_Wyvern Hill, Scotland, 1294 A.D._

A decade short of three hundred years old.

Macbeth still could not quite believe it, would not have believed it except that he had lived it. Much had changed, but in those centuries change came slowly. John de Balliol was now King of Scots, but from what Macbeth understood, he was not likely to last long. Already there was trouble between him and Edward I or England concerning a planned invasion of France. He was glad politics were no longer his concern.

Two hundred and ninety years of age, and it had been two centuries since the last person from his past – what he still considered his real life – had been put in the ground. Demona did not understand how he could feel anything but contempt for Canmore, parts of Macbeth could not understand it either, but the man had been family and born into a conflict he did not begin even if he felt compelled to end it. None of it mattered now. Even that dynasty had come to an end. The rule of Scotland was given to lesser men.

Macbeth kept up with news from his country, but this was also the first time he had spent any significant amount of time there in many decades. He had traveled to France, Spain, and as far to the south-east as Italy, which he had taken a liking to during his pilgrimage there in 1050 when he was still king. Europe in the middle ages was not the safest of places, but Macbeth knew how to stay invisible when need be. One in a while he would travel in company, listen to people tell stories, and share a few of his own. Some were less than true than others, but his audience never complained.

Still no matter how good he got at creating new identities for himself, the tedium of lying to everyone at every turn was never ceased to exhaust him. He supposed he could use his real name. Macbeth may have become a figure of history with the date of his supposed death nearly two hundred and fifty years away, but it was a perfectly valid name.

Son of life.

The irony was not lost on him. But using the same name was hardly a comfort as he would have to come up with an entirely different history than the one he actually experienced. Even as a human, immortality was a lonely and tiering existence. He could not even imagine what it was like for Demona. She did not have to pretend, but that was only because she did not let herself be seen by humans and there were no gargoyles left in existence that he was aware of. Macbeth was looking forward to seeing her again and shedding his pretense if only for a little while.

Except that he had arrived late. Or early, depending on the point of view.

He glanced sight of the castle as the first rays of the sun touched the horizon. No point in pushing the horse harder when there was no way he would reach it in time. He was at the cliff-side within the hour and soon found Demona in stone form crouched in one of the many caves. He was amused to see a slight hint of annoyance on her concrete face, no doubt at the fact that he had arrived late. Ah, well, it didn't matter. Macbeth had the whole day now.

"You don't mind if I check on your friends, do you?" he asked the statue. Predictable no reply came, and the former king nodded. "I thought not. Don't go anywhere, Demona. I'll be back before sunset."

He left his horse tied in what little remained of Castle Wyvern's stables and made his way to the tower where the six gargoyle statues still stood after three hundred years. He was more than a little impressed that neither man nor nature had destroyed them yet but was not about to share that thought with Demona lest she forget just how hazardous killing him was to her own health. Walking around the tower to make sure all the statues were truly in one piece, he settled himself on the parapet between the old gargoyle with the Viking sword and the one with a beak-like mouth and unwrapped the bread and cheese he had taken with him.

"That's one thing to miss about Spain," he told the gargoyles, "Italy, too. Southern countries always have better food. Fresh, not like here. By the time anything makes its way this far north, its well on its way to being a piece of rock. No offense meant, of course."

The stone figure showed only slightly less interest in his tale than an awake Demona would have. Alright, that was unfair. She did listen somewhat. It was probably fair to say that he was her favorite human in the world even if it was not much of a statement considering what she thought of humans as a species. And she spoke to him of her own travels on a few rare occasions. Macbeth had to remember that no matter how hard he was finding his own immortality to bare, hers was far more difficult on account of being so entirely isolated.

" 'Tis her own fault, you know," he said. "Surely we humans are not so bad that she would rather be alone than have a conversation with another sentient being. As if I don't offer to accompany her. Was she so stubborn when she was a part of your clan?"

He lapsed into an easy sort of one-sided conversation with the statues, only briefly wondering if he was crazy for doing so. The only rocks people ever talked to were gravestones, and the comparison chilled him. After the two and a half centuries that he had known of them, it was hard to remember that these were still living creatures. Possibly so, at least. Even Demona did not really know if they were still alive. He pushed the thought aside. It was not as if there was anyone else there to talk to.

By mid-day, Macbeth covered most of his adventures in Europe and was about to go down to the cave again to check on Demona, when a disturbance of the regular rhythm of the waves caught his attention. He came around the tower so that he could see the ocean and what was causing the strange sound. Few details could be made out from a hight, but Macbeth saw a blond haired man lightly armored dragging a strange skiff to the shore so that it would not be swept away by the tide.

As he watched, the man fixed his sword belt, looked up at the castle, and then started for the winding path up the sharp cliffs. Macbeth drew his bushy brows together. Hypothetically, it was not that strange a sight. Perhaps the stranger crossed the water from Ireland, though his boat looked far too small to survive such a journey. What _was_ odd was the fact that instead of walking the shoreline to a place where the beach was not hindered by cliffs, he chose instead a much more rigorous and dangerous path straight to the castle.

"Well, well," Macbeth said, half to himself half to the nearest stone gargoyle, "what do we make of that?"

Now that the man was closer, he determined that he could not be more than a score of years in age. Carefully remaining out of the youth's range of vision, the former king watched as he made his way into the castle. Macbeth could not fathom what he could possibly want there. Locals considered the area haunted and would not go near Wyvern Hill at all, though if he was from Ireland, the boy would not know it. Did he mean to loot the treasury? He was sure to be sorely disappointed; Vikings were not known for leaving valuables behind. If it was precious metals or jewels he wanted, he would check bellow and be on his way. _Still_, Macbeth decided as his eyes followed the newcomer, _no sense in taking chances. Better stay up here until he leaves._

To his surprise, however, the youth did not head for the treasury or even the armory to check for weapons. His path lead clearly and directly to the tower with the gargoyles and Macbeth himself. From the door that lead to and from the second to last circuit, the immortal watched as the young man passed by on his way to the top. Macbeth's hand was already on the hilt of his sword as he followed soundlessly only steps behind him. Once they were at the roof, he remained in door frame while the young man walked over to the statue of Goliath. When he reached out a hand to touch the gargoyle, Macbeth decided the time for hiding was over.

"That's far enough," the former king emerged from the shadows, sword half way out of its scabbard. "Let's have a talk you and I."

The young man whirled drawing his own sword with little elegance and held it out in front of him, the tip pointed squarely at Macbeth. Having learned to read people many ages ago, the immortal saw confusion flash across the boy's face before it settled in defensive anger.

"Who are you?"

N_ot Irish_, Macbeth thought. _A fellow Scotsman. But what is he doing here?_

"I'll be asking the questions here, laddie. What are you doing at Castle Wyvern?"

"That's none of your concern, old man," he snapped back. "And I asked you first."

"I am Macbeth mac Findlaích," for some reason his instincts told him to give the boy his real name. When he got a blank stare in reply, Macbeth rose an eyebrow. "That name means nothing to you?"

"Should it?" the youth scowled.

"Clearly you've never been taught proper history," the king commented, but to himself he thought _Though it may not be your fault if Canmore erased every mention of my name from the books._ "Why don't we go back to the ground and discuss it?"

"I have a better idea," the man advanced a step. "You go down alone. Directly from this tower, if need be."

He came at him, but Macbeth easily dodged the blow again and again. There was no reason to even cross swords. In theory the boy had potential, but anyone who ever wielded a sword in true combat could see that he had never been properly trained. Macbeth let him think he was making a few good moves before he grew bored of the fight and knocked the boy flat on his back.

"Once more," he repeated, the point of his own sword at the hollow of the pale haired boy's throat, "what are you doing at this castle?"

The youth looked both afraid and frustrated, his eyes darting between the point of the sword and Macbeth's arm to see just how close he was to death. "I'm Tom!" he finally blurted.

"My name means nothing to you," Macbeth laughed, "yet you expect me to recognize yours?"

"No, you wouldn't," the boy said hurriedly, then nodded his head in the direction of Goliath's stone form as much as the sword point allowed, "but they would."

"They?" Macbeth's face betrayed none of the surprise he felt at the discovery that this Tom apparently knew about the gargoyles. "You're telling me your friends, the talking rocks, will vouch for you?"

"They're not rocks!" anger flashed over the boy's face. "They're gargoyles."

Instantly Tom knew he had said too much. He stared at Macbeth for some reaction, but again the king hid it well. This was getting more and more intriguing. He doubted the youth meant harm but was also really curious to know how someone in that day and age would have known that the statues that adorned Castle Wyvern were more than just well-carved stone. Or maybe he does not really know, Macbeth considered. _Maybe it's just a legend he heard and he's here to see what truth there is to it._

"Tom, is it?" he looked down at him thoughtfully and used the same trick he'd often used on Luach and other children he had worked on since to coax them into giving away more information than they meant to. "And I suppose you'd named these creatures as well."

The youth blinked and opened his mouth to say something before shutting it again.

"Their kind doesn't have names," he said at last, "but that one," he pointed at the still form with his back to them, "is called Goliath."

The answer was enough for Macbeth to sheath his sword and extend a hand to help the youth off the stone floor. Tom gripped his forearm for support, as perplexed as ever, and rose. Macbeth studied him for a long moment before speaking again.

"How do you know of this clan, lad?"

The youth bristled at that. "I'm not a lad."

"You're certainly younger than I," the king pointed out reasonably. There was no need to add that there was a good probability that everyone in the world with the exception of Demona was younger than him. "A score at most."

"A score and two," Tom corrected, but he did not look certain.

_That is strange,_ Macbeth thought. _How can he not know his own age?_ Even as an Immortal Macbeth knew precisely how old he was, no matter how fruitless the exercise of keeping track was.

"A score and two," he agreed. "That still puts you at well over thirty my junior. Don't be defensive. I mean you no harm. I would simply like to know what you know of these creatures and how you came about that knowledge."

"I..." he was clearly considering what to say, "I knew them. When they were still flesh."

This time Macbeth could not hide his surprise. "That would make you over three hundred years of age."

He knew the precision of the number was a tell on his part, but at that point he did not care. Something was going on here. Something Macbeth knew he should figure out and preferably sooner rather than later. It did not matter much because Tom did not seem to have noticed.

"I _am_ twenty-two," he said looking a bit uncomfortable. "I was there... here... back in nine ninety-four, but I'm only twenty-two. Don't ask me how. I won't tell you."

"Fair enough," Macbeth knew better then to press. "What are you doing here now, Tom?"

"I came to see if they'd awakened," he replied. "If somehow someone broke the spell. Though, I guess there's no way to tell now in the middle of the day."

"Spell?" the king's eyes flashed. "They're under a spell?"

Tom had that I-said-too-much look on his face again, and Macbeth could just tell this was going to be a long day.

"This is what I know," he said, deciding to take the high road and save them both some time. "In nine ninety-four there was a Viking attack on this castle. Most of the gargoyle clan that guarded it was destroyed, and these six ended up like this. Now you tell me they're under a spell, which, at the very least, tells me that they _are_ still alive. I have a friend who would be very interested in hearing what else you know, but you must come with me to see her. If you truly knew the clan, she will recognize you."

"Who...?" the youth trailed off.

"Someone else who was there," Macbeth replied, already heading down the steps. "In the meantime, you can tell me what you know about this spell and how all of this came to be."

By the time they were nearing the mouth of the cave Demona had taken as shelter during the day, Macbeth was cursing and shaking his head. So three hundred years ago a misguided magician had cast the six surviving members of the Wyvern clan under a spell to make them sleep until something impossible happened. _Wonderful,_ he thought sarcastically. _Demona is going to love this. The last of her clan, not to mention her mate, taken from her by a human._

A different thought suddenly struck him, and the king frowned. Speaking of Demona, where had _she_ been during all of this? He did not have much time to contemplate that because they had reached the cave, and the sun was well on its way to setting.

"Listen," he told Tom before they entered, "tell her everything you know, but do not mention how the others came to be cast in stone. Say that you do not know. Believe me, 'tis for your own safety."

"Who do you mean?" the young man asked, but his question was answered the instant they set foot in the cave and he came face to face with Demona's sleeping form. Macbeth knew he did not need to elaborate.


	8. Chapter 7: Expedition

_**Author's Note:**_ Hey a timely update! Yays! Just to say mention this one last time, 'gargoyles_watch', the Gargoyles rewatch community on LiveJournal is in full swing. We had a great success with "Awakening" parts 1 and 2 last week and this week we're watching "Awakening" part 3. I hope you'll join us. Other than that, enjoy and please review!

**Chapter 7**

**Expedition**

Macbeth was late.

He was supposed to be there last night, but humans, even on horseback, were nowhere near as fast as a gargoyle in flight. Demona had a vague idea of his travels from their previous rendezvous and the very few times they had traveled together, but there was no way of knowing just how far away he was coming from this time. Unlike Macbeth, who had spent decades at a time mainly in Western European countries, she rarely remained in any one place for long. Instead Demona meticulously combed all of Europe and northern Asia from the Atlantic to what people in later centuries would recognize as the shore of the Pacific.

Nothing.

She had not seen another gargoyles in over two hundred years. The loneliness was so all-consuming that she gladly traded it for the guilt and sadness that came with returning to Wyvern and seeing Goliath and the others. Lonely still, but just a little less so. Again unlike her human companion, she did not feel the need to share her experiences over the centuries. There was little to speak of. Just being in their company again was enough, and the silence was mutual.

She broke from the stone sleep in a roar, eyes blazing, ready for attack. Vigilance was the gargoyle way, after all. Demona had expected to see Macbeth. She did _not_ expect to see him in the company of a human male less than a quarter of a century old whose wide blue eyes stared at her in a mixture of fascination and disbelief. She ignored him and turned her own hard onyx gaze to the former king.

"Explain," she demanded. "Now."

Macbeth cleared his throat. "Demona, this is..."

The boy snapped out of his earlier astonishment, stepped forward with more excitement than sense, and uttered a praise she did not quote catch. "I can't believe it's you!"

"Am I expected to recognize you, human?" she asked dispassionately.

"Well, no," he was somewhat embarrassed, but apparently undeterred. "I was but a lad at Castle Wyvern the night the Vikings destroyed your clan. Remember?"

"No."

He looked flustered and glanced at Macbeth for support. The king just waved his hand.

"She's like this, lad. Don't take it personally."

The newcomer, who Demona was growing more and more impatient with, quickly wracked his brain for something to say to make her remember him. "I'm Tom. I was in the group of refuges Princess Katharine gave shelter to the night before the first attack. I was fascinated with the gargoyles and started asking all sorts of questions, but my mother was afraid for me and threw a stick at the red one that's up there on the tower now. You came to their defense."

Macbeth, who had known her for long enough to read even the smallest flickers of emotion, saw that that indeed sparked something. Not enough that any other person would have taken note, but Macbeth realized that she did indeed recognize the boy. Tom continued.

"You were Goliath's second-in-command. You... terrified us," he admitted a little sheepishly.

At this Demona smiled, and Macbeth thought that if he were anyone else, he would be terrified by that smile alone as well. Trust Demona to be pleased at scaring someone, especially a human. Tom did tense up more than slightly.

"What of it?" she asked, not really admitting that she knew the boy but no longer denying it.

"I..." he seemed at a loss. "I came to see if the others had awakened. I ran into your friend and told him my story. He said I should speak to you."

"What could you possibly have to say that I would be interested in hearing?"

Macbeth was utterly relieved that she did not ask why he should think that the gargoyles atop Castle Wyvern would suddenly awaken. She also did not look terribly surprised that she was standing across from yet another man who should have been dead centuries ago, but that was more likely than not just another thing she hid well. After all he had seen in his long life, Macbeth himself was not a man easily impressed, but Tom had not told him everything, therefore the next words out of his mouth did take him by surprise.

"I thought I would tell you of your children."

* * * * * * * * * *

"They have passed beyond our sight. There can only be one explanation."

"Avalon."

"This is... unplanned."

"Should we stop them?"

"Why bother? We do not care about what happens between now and then."

"What they do in the meantime is their own affair. We will let them go but watch for their return."

* * * * * * * * * *

The magic that bound Macbeth and Demona did not go as far as to transfer emotion, but at the moment the old king almost believed it did. Surely the chill that gripped him could could not be coming from him. Then again it could just be the dampness of the air on the ocean.

No one was surprised to see the six gargoyles atop Wyvern's tallest tower still encased in stone when they returned to the top. Tom gave a little disappointed sigh and lead them to the skiff. He and Macbeth made their way down the steep and jagged cliffs while Demona glided directly to the boat. It was not as if she could not have carried them down one at a time, but she had not offered, and Macbeth was not inclined to ask her. He was not certain he even trusted her state of mind at the moment.

Tom spoke a string of Latin – an incantation to be sure – just before the mist surrounded them. Macbeth knew the language, of course, but had not payed attention. After that silence descended. Tom was in front, pushing the skiff along through the ever thickening fog, while Demona sat in the middle, wings folded about her shoulders, and Macbeth remained on the other end. He did not know how she could stand the silence when he had about a million questions running through his mind and was fighting to curbed his curiosity.

"I'll take you to see them," Tom had said to a dead silent Demona, and she had not uttered a single word since.

Macbeth, however, did want to talk. The subject of the Wyvern clan's children – the Eggs as Tom called them – was obviously off limits, but there were other things he wanted to know as the skiff sailed into the mist.

"If you're from Demona's time," he said, "how did you come to be here?"

"My journey had been a long and strange one," the young man replied.

He began to tell of things before Macbeth's time. Of the struggles of a group of refuge humans to reach the castle of King Kenneth II, Macbeth's great grandfather, who carried with them thirty-six precious gargoyle eggs. Of the murder of the king by the usurper Constantine and how they fled to the island of Avalon that he had only heard legends about. Tom explained that an hour spent there was equivalent to a day in the real world. That was what he meant when he said he was only twenty-two despite being born before Macbeth himself. When he reached the part about their confrontation with the guardians of the island, Macbeth held up a hand to stop him.

"You said there were three of them?" he asked. "Three... witches?"

"Aye," Tom nodded. "Alike in all things save their hair color. One black, one white, one yellow. Why do you ask?"

Macbeth looked at Demona but her expression had not changed even with the mention of the Weird Sisters.

"No reason. Please go on."

But there was not much left to tell. The mist that had surrounded the skiff began to part just as quickly as it had come upon them, and Macbeth saw the light of a burning signal fire on a not too distant hillside. He felt a wave of magic sweep across him, magic unlike he had ever felt before. Everything here was saturated with it, and they had not yet set foot on the island itself.

Macbeth was utterly in awe.

"Do you see this?" he whispered and reached out to put a hand on Demona's shoulder. Even in her state of shock she should not miss this.

His hand touched nothing but cool stone. He blinked, surprised. Somehow between Tom's tale and his first glance of the mystic isle, Macbeth had missed the sunrise. _But how can that be?_ he thought, bewildered. _It was sunset only hours ago._ He looked to their guide for an explanation, but Tom only shrugged a little.

"I did tell you time works in funny ways here," he said, then, as if realizing he might have forgotten something vital, gave Macbeth a concerned look. "Are you worried about leaving someone behind? I should have asked before we left."

"No," Macbeth smiled a little. "Everything I have is here."

That was not entirely true. He did acquire some dwellings and even a few possessions in various parts of Europe, but some have stood empty for many decades. However much time they would spend on Avalon, Macbeth was certain that everything would be right where he left it.

They pulled up to the sandy beach, and together he and Tom tugged the skiff ashore. Macbeth stood looking around. Physically it did not look particularly different from any place he had been in the real world, but he could not deny the magic that saturated the place. It was not enough to bother him, but if he concentrated, Macbeth could almost swear that he could reach out and touch it. Tom seemed undisturbed by it, possibly because he lived here and was used to it the way someone eventually got used to a humid climate.

_Or is it because I've been touched by magic before?_ Macbeth wondered. Did the spell that bind him and Demona also somehow make them more sensitive to the presence of magic? It was certainly a possibility, especially since Tom had said that the Sisters apparently came from this place. He would have to ask Demona what feeling she had from the island when she awoke.

"We can go ahead to the castle," Tom pointed at the far away structure Macbeth had not noticed before, "to see Princess Katharine and Magus. This island is deserted. No harm will come to your companion."

Macbeth shook his head. "I will wait here till dusk," he said. "I do not doubt you, but this is a strange land to me. I will not leave her unprotected."

Tom did not argue but he was clearly impatient to get back to his home. He looked at the castle somewhat longingly.

"Then I will go fetch someone," he decided. "It is safe here, but one of us always remains with the Eggs."

"I'd like to speak to the Magus, if you don't mind." As eager as Macbeth was to meet his kinswoman, he thought it was more crucial for every human on the island if he spoke to the wizard first and found out as much as he could about the spell the remainder of the Wyvern clan was under before Demona awakened. Not to mention he also needed to warn them not to speak of it in her presence.

"I'll fetch him," Tom nodded and ran off, and Macbeth settled in to wait.

He returned within the hour followed by a pale man in white robes. Even his hair was white, an unnatural color for someone his age. Tom, meanwhile, kept glancing anxiously at the castle as if he wanted to get back as soon as possible. Macbeth was obviously not the only one who noticed because the Magus sighed and told the young man to go back. He was more than happy to comply. The wizard himself glanced at Demona's stone form, instantly recognizing her, and turned to Macbeth.

"Your companion I know," he said, "but Tom told us a little of yourself. I am the Magus."

"I'm called Macbeth," he clasped the man's outstretched hand, "and I believe we have much to talk about. You are the sorcerer who cursed the Wyvern clan?"

A wave of guilt washed over the man's face, but he did not deny it. "To my shame, I am."

"I'm not here to shame you," Macbeth said, "but to tell you that under no circumstances must she," he pointed to Demona, "know of this. The lives of every human on this island are forfeit if she finds out."

Magus looked bewildered at this. "I took what was left of her clan, and now you wish for me to lie to her about it? I know she will be angry but..."

"You don't know her," the former king assured him. "Believe me when I say that if you tell her what you've done, she will kill you and Tom and the princess. _I_ will tell her. Later. When we are far away from this island." The Magus gave him a puzzled look, but Macbeth only shrugged a little. "Don't worry. She likes me. Relatively speaking, of course."

"As you say," the wizard still looked a little confused. "May I ask a question in turn?"

"You may ask."

"How is it that you are still alive? Both of you. I know that gargoyles have longer lifespans than those of humans, but three centuries is a long time. And Tom told us you come from not too far after the fall of Castle Wyvern."

"About a decade after to be more precise. I was born in ten o four," Macbeth had been waiting for that question. "We made a bargain, Demona and I, one which, I admit, I did not fully understand at the time. It bound us together by magic and makes it impossible for us to die by anyone else's hands but our own. Lucky we're such great friends, eh Demona?" he tossed the statue a lopsided grin.

"So you are immortal?"

"Near as we can tell. I am two hundred and ninety-four years now and counting. She is even older than that, though I do not know exactly how much older."

The Magus nodded thoughtfully. "It has been a while since I've wielded magic myself, but that is a very powerful spell. Who cursed you?"

"Fate," Macbeth said simply, "that worked its sorcery though our mutual desire for vengeance among other things. I believe you can be trusted, but I would prefer to speak to Demona first before I say too much. What concerns me usually concerns her, and the opposite is true as well."

Magus nodded in acceptance. "Did you name her?" he asked, changing the topic.

"Aye," Macbeth laughed. "It seemed to suit."

"It does," the other man agreed. "More so than what Goliath called her."

"His 'angel of the night'," Macbeth remembered her saying that once. "I don't know how he came up with that one. She's anything but angelic."

Magus nodded. "I will not lie to you. I know she is your friend and...," he looked like h was searching for the right word, "and rookery mother to the Eggs, but frankly I would have preferred to see Goliath. Anyone else from the clan, really. Much less time passed here than in the real world, but as I recall, she was quite... aggressive. Unless something changed."

"No," Macbeth said almost cheerfully. Apparently Demona's sunny disposition was well known. "But she did promise me once," _well, sort of promised_, "not to kill needlessly. Don't make her feel like she needs to and don't assume I have any control over her, because I don't. I doubt she'll be terribly thrilled to see you, but as long as you do not mention the spell, you should be safe enough. Now, before the sun goes down, what else can you tell me about it?"

The sorcerer looked at a loss. "It is a rather simple sleep spell," he said. "On a human, it would most assuredly be fatal unless broken quickly. Our bodies still require nourishment and age in sleep, but gargoyles are different. They can remain stone indefinitely and not perish."

"So if someone were to break the spell," Macbeth reasoned, "even centuries after it was cast, they would be alright."

"Correct," Magus agreed. "That is why Tom took it upon himself to go back to Wyvern Hill every hundred years by your time; to see if someone had broken it."

"And without the counter spell that you say was burnt, the only way for them to awaken is for the castle to rise above the clouds?"

The wizard nodded. "I had considered levitation spells, but I do not have anything nearly so powerful. I doubt any such spell even exists."

Macbeth looked at the sky above and blew out a short breath. "Well," he said, "at least time is on our side."


	9. Chapter 8: Ascension

_**Author's Note:**_ Yes, I realize I haven't updated this in forever. I'm actually a little stuck. I said before that I planned to fast forward certain chapters (like I did a few chapters ago) but I find myself both wanting to write more about Avalon and wanting to fast forward all the way to the mid twentieth century, and I'm trying to figure out how to balance the two. Please bare with me. Oh and the Avalon clan looks about 6 - 7 years old in human terms. I did the math ^_^ Also I quite unintentionally added three small easter eggs about a book series I'm very fount of, so if you find them, brownie points for you. As always ideas are welcomed and please r&r!

**Chapter 8**

**Ascension**

Demona felt odd, like she had somehow slept too long. It did not help at all that she was waking up for a second time with another human standing in front of her. This one, however, she recognized almost immediately. He had aged a few years over a decade, but otherwise had not changed much from the tall though physically unimposing figure she remembered from Castle Wyvern centuries earlier from her perspective. She snarled, but unlike the boy, this one stood his ground though the unease in his posture was evident.

The Magus acknowledged her with a nod. "It has been a long time."

"My children," her voice was even but undeniably chilling. "Where are they?"

Macbeth stood to the side, no doubt watching her for any sign that she might lunge for the wizard's throat. She would not. Not yet, but it was good to know she could still keep the former king on his toes. If the Magus was taken aback by her abruptness he did not show it much.

"Please," he indicated the path that wound its way to the castle in the distance. "This way."

Folding her wings about her shoulders she began to walk after him with Macbeth bringing up the rear. It would have been easy enough for her to take to the air and be at the castle within moments, but Demona needed to collect her thoughts. Three centuries since the destruction of the clan at Wyvern. She had given up hope of finding the clan's offspring a century earlier. Even if they had survived to hatch they would not have lived that long. Never in her dreams had she imagined this.

Her mind drifted centuries back to when she stood on the tallest tower of the castle and watched the three humans carry the gargoyle eggs away from the ruins. The devastation of the loss of her mate and the rest of the clan had robbed her of her usual aggression. She might have flown down, killed the humans, and taken back the eggs, but what then? As she had told Macbeth's queen two and a half centuries before, she had nothing to offer her children. Had that really changed at all?

She was so lost in those thoughts that when the large front gates of the castle loomed before her, Demona was almost surprised. And she certainly did not have time to prepare herself for the two small figures that glided down from the walls and landed rather unevenly before them.

"Magus!" the young girl who had landed in front launched herself at the man like a ball of energy. Macbeth held back a laugh. Apparently childhood enthusiasm was the same no matter the species.

The wizard patted both youngsters on the head, and their gazes instantly turned to Macbeth and Demona. There was a long moment when the two children and the newcomers stared at each other in wonder. The female gargoyle knelt for a better look at two of her clan's offspring, while the old king remained standing, not wishing too intrude too much on the moment.

"What's your name?" the yellow haired boy asked politely.

"Demona," it did not even occur for her to be surprised by the question.

"I'm Gabriel," he said. "You're from the real world, aren't you? We've never seen a grown up gargoyle before."

"The Guardian said you're from our clan," the girl chimed in.

"Yes," for some reason Demona studied at her just a bit more intensely than she had the boy. "I... didn't know you survived."

"We've been living here on Avalon," the child declared enthusiastically. "Princess Katharine, Magus, and Guardian have been taking care of us. Who's your friend?"

She looked up at Macbeth, who took this as a cue to enter the conversation. He had never seen such a young gargoyle before and also hunched down for a better look at the little girl. The curiosity was mutual since none of the youngsters had ever seen anyone other than the three humans who raised them. The young gargoyle reached out and tentatively touched his beard.

"Why does your hair grow on the bottom of your face?" she asked. Both the Magus and Tom were clean-shaven so it must have looked odd to her.

"Angela," came a stern but not unkind voice from the gate. "That's impolite."

Both Macbeth and Demona had been so preoccupied with the gargoyle children that they had not noticed the gate open or the woman who was now walking towards them. She was perhaps a few years over thirty in garb that Macbeth instantly recognized as belonging to the Scotland of his own time. He guessed this must be Princess Katharine, and the look of distaste on Demona's face confirmed that suspicion. The lavender skinned girl pulled back and took on the unmistakable look of a child that had just been scolded.

"Sorry," she gave Macbeth an apologetic pout.

"That's quite alright, lassie," he smiled. "I'm old. Old men often wear beards."

"Oh," she looked like she wanted to ask more questions, but luckily the princess was at her side and gently nudged her back in the direction of the castle.

"Let's give our guest some room to breath," the woman advised. "We can all come inside for some food and talk there. Alright?"

"Okay," Angela smiled happily and ran off after her rookery brother who followed the Magus back inside.

The woman straightened her skirts and gave Macbeth a warm smile.

"I'm Katharine," she introduced herself.

"I'm called Macbeth," he bowed slightly, "and I believe we're kinsmen. Kenneth II was your uncle, correct? You're Maol Chalvim's cousin."

"You know of my cousin?" her eyes lit up.

"He was my grandfather," Macbeth laughed. "Which makes you my distant aunt, I suppose."

"Ach, forgive a woman her vanity but you are older than I," her own smile made it clear that the comment was not meant to be unkind. "Let us say cousins."

"Agreed," Macbeth nodded. "It's good to see family again, no matter the title."

"And we will speak inside over some food," Katharine said. "You must tell me all of how Scotland fares these years."

She then turned to Demona, but the gargoyle's eyes focused on the castle. Even here outside the gates, the sound of children at play could still be heard. It was the quiet that finally got her attention, and she turned to face the princess. Macbeth tensed. Demona may not have known about the spell that had turned the last of the Wyvern clan to stone, he knew there were bad feelings between the two women. Which was why he was relieved when his cousin bowed deeply in a sign of respect.

Demona did not know what to say. A part of her mind replayed her life in Wyvern, and every insult, every superior and haughty look the princess ever sent in the direction of her clan. Everything that made her want to leap for Katharine's throat. But then... then the more immediate memories of the two children looking at the human woman with such trust and adoration. It made her feel jealous and angry but also oddly grateful. The impact of the memories of the past softened ever so slightly.

"We would all be honored if the two of you joined us for dinner," Katharine's smile was not without a hint of nervousness. "Please come inside. You've just met Angela and Gabriel, but there are thirty-four more you have not seen."

The followed a few steps behind the princess, though Macbeth kept intermittently lagging behind and catching up. His eyes kept wandering as he attempted to keep track of all the faces of the gargoyle children that kept appearing and disappearing just as quickly, curious and a little cautious of their visitors. They were a few steps behind their guide when he fell into stride beside Demona and lowered his voice.

"I'm wondering," he tried not to sound too curious. "Are any of these... yours?"

If he thought he was prying, Macbeth was surprised by her even response of, "They're all mine."

"That isn't exactly what I meant," he knew about the way gargoyles raised the hatchlings as children of the entire clan, but he thought his question had been clear.

"I know what you meant," the red haired woman replied. "My answer stands."

"There are thirty-six of them," he persisted. "Thirty-three, discounting the three beasts I saw. I'm fairly certain it is physically impossible for _all_ of them to be yours."

Demona stopped, seeing he was not about to let this go. "Was Luach yours?"

The old king scowled at her, momentarily forgetting that he was the one who brought up the subject. "In every way that matters," he said angrily.

"As they are mine," the gargoyle was unusually clam. "In every way that matters."

She continued on, letting him fall behind once again. Macbeth shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the implication of her earlier comment and force himself to remember that the mentality that worked for humans did not always work for gargoyles, even when the human and gargoyle in question where himself and Demona.

* * * * * * * * * *

Bowls of fruit were set up on the table near the fireplace of the castle's great hall. The children ate in record time and wanted to stay to bombard their guests with more questions, but Katharine shooed them all away to play in the yard while the adults talked. Demona would have followed them if she did not have questions of her own to ask the humans.

"Goliath and the other five survivors of the massacre," she said once the children were well out of earshot, "how did they come to be cast in stone even through the nights?"

Her gaze was fixed on Katharine so she did not notice Macbeth and the Magus straighten and lean in ever so slightly to listen as well.

"I do not know," the princess replied calmly. "They came after us when the Vikings took us hostage. Goliath defeated Hakon, and my former captain perished as well. The gargoyles flew ahead when we gathered to return to the castle. They wanted to make certain the path was clear of any survivors of Hakon's band. When we returned to Wyverm, we found them in stone."

"And that is when you took the eggs."

"Aye," the other woman nodded. "Had I known you still lived, I would have, of course, sought you out. Please do not think we stole your children."

Demona was silent. She could not very well tell the princess that she had been there when the humans were loading the eggs onto the carts and done nothing. In the end, even she had to grudgingly admit that it had turned out the better decision if not a completely conscious one. Even if she could have protected all thirty-six young gargoyles till adulthood, there was a good chance they would have been lost at Canmore's hands when the rest of her clan had been. And if not him, perhaps someone from his brood.

_They needn't know these things_, she thought, scanning the humans around the table. Not even Macbeth knew about the Hunters, and Demona deemed it for the best.

"I hold you at fault for nothing," she told the princess. "My... thanks for keeping them safe."

From the corner of her gaze, she saw Macbeth smile approvingly. No doubt he was impressed she was thanking a human other than himself. Demona found it odd as well, but then again with the exception of her alliance with Macbeth, this was the only time she had witnessed humans helping gargoyles at their own expenses.

A glance at the tall windows and quick assessment of the late night sky told her they had spent many hours in conversation. It would be dawn again soon.

"Where do the children sleep?" she asked rising.

"There is a large room a level above," the Magus pointed upwards. "Avalon is peaceful, as I have said, but we deemed it best to have them spend the days inside until they are older."

_Wise decision_.

She nodded and left without another word. At that point the conversation switched to the affairs of the outside world, especially Scotland. Katharine was eager to hear news of her home and of any other surviving members of her family. When Macbeth told her about Duncan and Canmore, how he himself came to power, his reign, and historical demise, the princess just shook her head sadly.

"I wish I could say I am surprised, but politics has always been a bloody business, turning kin against kin. What little time I spent in my uncle's court was more than enough for me to realize that and be gland I am no longer part of it."

"I wholeheartedly agree," Macbeth nodded. "I miss my wife and my son, but not the crown."

"Do Canmore's descendants still rule in Scotland?" she asked out of curiosity.

"Actually, no," he thought for a moment, recalling the large liefy family tree of the Scottish monarchs. "He had many many children. Five of his sons sat on the throne at one point or another, and I'm certain he has surviving descendants, but King Alexander III who ruled up until eight years ago is the last monarch I know of who can claim to be descendant from Canmore. There was one girl, Margaret of Norway, but I am uncertain of the true story. There has been great unrest in Scotland lately. Many candidates have come forth, but none have been crowned. I've even heard talk of an English monarch..."

"The Scots would never tolerate a foreign ruler," Katharine frowned, and just for a moment Macbeth could see the haughtiness in his kinswoman that had so annoyed Demona. Not that he could blame her. The idea did not sit well with him either.

"The world is becoming increasingly more complicated," he finally said. "You do not feel the passage of time in the same manner as I, but believe me, dear cousin, when I say that these games of thrones are all but meaningless in the grand scheme, whatever it is. Kings will clash, bringing about with them storms of swords, rise and fall int turn, but the people will go on. As for Canmore and his line... to be perfectly frank, I do not think I have the strength to think of him with anything but pity, so I try not to think of him at all."

* * * * * * * * * *

It was not hard to find the room the Magus spoke of. The castle was large, but once she got up the stairs, Demona only needed to follow the laughter and sound of children playing to find them. She stood in the doorway and watched them without being seen for a moment, marveling at the fact that they seemed so like any other group of rookery siblings despite the fact that they had no clan to raise them. It made her think of her own brothers and sisters, of her mate... her chest constricted in pain.

When they saw her, the youngsters rushed forward all talking at once, some introducing themselves, others asking more questions. It was still a bit difficult for her to try to keep track of so many names at the same time, but she did commit each child's face to memory. She had told Macbeth the truth: they were all her children, but some faces were just a little harder to look at than others. She had a good guess of where the boy, Gabriel, had come from. Her rookery brother and sister should have been here, should have had some chance to know their children as well, to know their son. And try as she might, Demona could not keep her gaze from lingering on Angela for just a few seconds longer than the others.

"Can you sing?" a girl – Demona thought she remembered her name was Ophelia – asked.

"Not very well," she told at her rookie daughter. "I'm made for battle, not songs."

"Oh please!" Angela looked at her with big dark eyes. "Princess Katharine knows lots, but we've heard them all."

She thought for a long moment, then remembered something. A song a mother used to sing to her son, one of great meaning and sadness and hope.

"I know one," Demona said finally. "I heard it long ago from a... friend."

She sat, wings wrapped around her shoulders their ends trailing on the floor like a cape. The young gargoyles all gathered around, some sitting close, others standing a foot away still a bit wary of the stranger. Angela, by far the boldest, climbed into into her lap looking up for permission only after the fact. Her mother smiled and patted her dark hair affectionately. She had only heard fractions of this particular song. Demona could not remember parts of the tune or even some of the lyrics, but the children did not seem to care.

Macbeth has been waiting just outside the door, once again not wishing to intrude, and did not enter until the sun had risen and the singing stopped. The sight of Demona surrounded by her children made him smile, even as he wondered when she'd heard the song Gruoch used to sing to their son.


End file.
